nothing above it but a few planets that had scattered from our whispers and from the echoes of what we were about to say. Do you hear us, thou ancient Mosque1?
Our words carry us aloft, yet they do not fall. What then was the listener hearing? And you, squatting for hundreds of years, watching what we squander in the evening. You embrace it and shut your oblivious eyes.
So, as we sit above the evening, we have a balcony in the sky and our plant is awake, vision glowing in it. We appeal to it to extinguish sleep from our blood and burning fire. We retrieve the ruins of the nights and rebuild them in our compassionate maqil2. Our gathering has its sublime glow; Sanaa is a deep voice.
Sanaa has an ancient face but that face is ours, when we wipe ours faces with our palms we see it and we forbid it to disappear. Sanaa has an ancient face, houses fusing into each other.
They have struck a single root in the mellowed earth, and expanded, as though in height they have a single destiny. Houses that mountains see and instantly yield, surrounding mountains yearn for them,
BANIPAL 53 – SUMMER 2015 45