Visiting Darwish, once more

Under the willow, is his grave,

I point to the butterfly effect that the shadow drops over 

where the tree meets the top of the stone

sleep. sleep here, eternally

for how many women have lain braids of their hair and peace 

onto your body? 

sleep and rest, poet 

with you words and old poetry, 

a smell of a woman with braids of wheat onto your body

under the willow is his grave 

but in the room is his passport, old and torn 

letters of love and letters of disappointment line the walls 

what lines line our day with words 

all known, that lead into nothing

everything real will go too

the record plays his voice when he had left 

somewhere between death and live, he has walked 

how slow are these other walkers!

in life he lives simply;

ate at the same restaurants 

made love to the anise strong Arak, loved the night 

sat beneath willows, they do not grow here

but out of the roots of exile 

alien, too foreign, these leaves

treat it like a shawl poet

let the braids of the trees cover you 

head to toe where no woman could now 

under the willow is his grave

beneath the butterfly effect 

I stand, pray, to return once more.