When the poet says to me
that we can speak about birds
I become restless
Because I suspect whether it is not our own epic bird
When my spouse says to me
That we can sing about limits
I am aware of a dervish who lost his tongue and land
Twirling and twirling and dancing
And saw a world without frontiers.
The stormy petrels harp that
The alleys would include the west bank
Those who lost shelters
Got dressed and wore their ornaments
Might get ready for their last journey
The children who ask where their birth land is
Would be taken to their schools
And served sweets
And called "darlings"
Then they would be shot on their chests
Without surprise or fear
They would fall dead calling their moms
In the end they would all be stamped terrorists.
Falcons and foxes would eat a tasty meat.