The Laureate's birthday

This is the day you were born
a quote to celebrate your achievements is dotted over space

your vices, are kept hidden, like the same answer formalation
we give to tyrants and presidents at the same time

they've broken us, but we refused to break
this is something only you would write

only a man would write
only a man with a messy desk would write

only a man with slanting glasses and exiles would write
only a man with torn out passports and detention orders

it only took one man, to cover on a national level
causes that are ours and not ours at the same time

without blanketing but with the written word
the word that had descended first from a mouth holier than yours

having never kissed as many women
from both sides of the equation, yet remained grounded

it will sound sacrilegious if I speak of poets- national- like I would speak
of excuses, long and unbending

there are days where I work in your shadows
there are others where I taper into your spirit

a butterfly effect from a man's heart
crawling lightly on a woman's chest

from a balconey that overlooks
your grave, I will whisper today,

Happy birthday, restful laureate
for in death only you have found your peace.

the houses with a hilltop view

Over the mountain that we debated could have been a hill
it stands, rows of houses, near rows of houses that look the same
identical in means and measures clearly cut out of stone
cut out of the valley, that has taken centuries to become ruined
by a past that is neither ours or theirs
nouns and pronouns that make nothing essential come to mind
over the mountain it stands, like a falcon
but all falcons are due to fall,
where does my fear stem from then, that it will stay?
the houses that were built over my people's bodies.

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.