أيها الشعراء الطرواديون
لم يعد هناك شيء مما كان يمكن أن يكون لكم
لا معابد ولا حدائق
أيها الشعراء الطرواديون الرائعون.
My sister screamed in the night
Take me to my brother’s house
And there she screamed that same night
No no! Take me back to the house of my father
They took her back
And when she made to scream again
The night had passed
And the men had gone to work.
Tomorrow the village market day
I will go to the spring
where you slip away to fill your jar
everyone at the market and me by the tree
we maintain twenty metres no more no less
and this before you catch on a stone or two
and before a foot slips and a jar slips
leaving me ahead
on our way to the spring again
by twenty metres and a slight smile.
The Two Houses
I wake in the same room to find my hand splashing the lake that lurks under the bed, to find the thick wall of my old house with its dusty window where a main wall of this apartment should be. I opened the window and the evening was still there. And my father was in the kitchen, his hand on the light switch and his leg which is missing five centimetres looking longer than the other, I called to him and he did not reply, he only smiled and invited me with gestures of his hand to go on sleeping. ‘The universe is a handkerchief’, they say here. Over there we say ‘Small world’. At night I go to my parents’ house, through the opening I made behind my new house. I stay there an hour or two to check on the family’s medicine, on my parents’ sleep and their breakfast. At dawn I set up my vehicle and go back again.