Queens don’t walk on feet
They are carried
in the howdahs
That cannot pass through the doors of Joseph Harb
Except once.

The intuition of the moment
-that falls between two nothings-
Makes the knights worry
That their lovers back at home
May love them no more
And so their mobiles would be flooded with messages
While the peasants strike their axes
In the mud
To test God’s sight power.

O people
Who lift the lenses from my eyes
And made the universe so small?
Who shut the doors and scattered the bolts?
And who said:

‘He swayed and took cover
And pretended his anger
I wish my angry lover
Explain his anger’

That means the door
Must be slammed
Before drawing the bolt.

But doors
Don’t open twice,
Doors that fly from Fairouz’s throat
Full of jasmine and singing
Pass the ladies whose hands are dyed with henna
And stop those who walk afoot
Whose wrists carry watches
Whose ankles
Carry iron bracelets.
And I’m here, alone
Whenever it tolls four in the morning
I adjust the window
To listen to the prayer caller who never changes his call.

‘Doors
Doors
Some are strangers
and some are friends
Some are closed
and some are awaiting
The return of the travellers’

Behind one of them
A woman works on her knitting
Her fingers busy with threads
To make a cloak used by women
So they are not seen naked by mirrors.

The door will be slammed after two minutes
And a man is waiting.
 

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© Translated by Sayed Gouda