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.