The images used to come to me Spontaneously, or I would let them Go to their positions without inspecting them.
A stranger does not have the authority of A state, but he inspects Like a policeman at the border, Like a lighthouse by the ocean: Ships are guided by it In the dark
My face follows me to where I can Make out a face for him So he can recite it To listeners who are thrusting Their fingers Into the clamor of senses, So that I am not compelled As is my habit To surprise my life With letters
There is someone who Imitates my gait, Walks the line with me, And as soon as he reaches my grave He leaves me And does not look back at the ringing.
26 BANIPAL 53 – SUMMER 2015
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