nes t ree
in turn I bore straw
much straw and went
in search of a tree to make
my nest but a tree I did not find
and with the straw I’d gleaned I packed
my chest I picked a field and I stood upright there
nes t ree
in turn I bore straw
much straw and went
in search of a tree to make
my nest but a tree I did not find
and with the straw I’d gleaned I packed
my chest I picked a field and I stood upright there
By Youssef Rakha
—You were waiting there,
not parting from the threshold.
Neither night after night
nor morning after morning
could wipe off your eyes the elongated picture of a soul,
of the trunk of a soul.