I've Spent Years

I’ve spent years
in another country,
learning songs you’ve never heard.

What is it that rises
like the scent of attar
from the whispers of consonants,
breath of vowels;
the word which enters
from behind the curtain of a line,
to make the listener sigh with pleasure?


The harsh wind asked me,
what are you writing in the sand?

I answered: I am a ruined garden
after spring has passed.

The dust of my self trickles
from the clenched fingers of my hand.

That’s not how it really is.

If I were singing
as I moved from room to room,
you'd hear it:
almost familiar, just out of reach.

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