Monday, June 19, 2017

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.

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