Dust patterns have gathered around my landline phone, huddling around the maroon. my fingerprints take some dust off of it, and they rejoice.
I wove necklaces of lyrics/ Which you'd wear beautifully
You know how that day the wind brought out/ The crazy thoughts I had in me all the while.
You called me close in the moments of grace/ Veiling my delicate senses
Buckets of water I pour on my head; my vision gets blurry./ "The blurrier, the merrier", my mother said.
For poet Abul Hasan Neither the pen nor the camera has changed
The yard in this noontime is buzzing with/ The white aroma of the guava flower
I’m going through a heartbreak
A reflection on Mahmoud Darwish’s 'A River Dies of Thirst: Diaries' (first published by Archipelago in 2009)
Dust patterns have gathered around my landline phone, huddling around the maroon. my fingerprints take some dust off of it, and they rejoice.
You called me close in the moments of grace/ Veiling my delicate senses
You know how that day the wind brought out/ The crazy thoughts I had in me all the while.
I wove necklaces of lyrics/ Which you'd wear beautifully
Buckets of water I pour on my head; my vision gets blurry./ "The blurrier, the merrier", my mother said.
For poet Abul Hasan Neither the pen nor the camera has changed
The yard in this noontime is buzzing with/ The white aroma of the guava flower
I’m going through a heartbreak
A reflection on Mahmoud Darwish’s 'A River Dies of Thirst: Diaries' (first published by Archipelago in 2009)
I'm tired of living with this nagging thought that we'll cross paths someday, /You and I