قصيدة : ليس غذاً أعود

English translation · Assisted by AI

O beautiful one,

these are words,

beneath me, footsteps

searching for you.

At the end of the poem,

when the pen is lifted,

and I know you have lain down

on your bed,

on a cloud,

in the farthest orbit —

my eyes will ride

the darkness of the universe

and draw close to your lonely body,

reciting over you a few prayers,

and there will blossom across your features

a smile of longing,

drying your tears, bearing your reproach,

telling you that your necklace is a god in the corners of my heart —

all my ribs worship it, and my dreams shatter beneath it.

While all the women dance at the gates of your homeland,

the edges of my heart

dance on the shores of longing,

in whose foam I drown.

If my thoughts had a scent, they are now lines tracing your neck;

and if they were flocks of doves, tomorrow they are messengers burning in your sky,

reciting my musings over you.

And if my thoughts were angels, they now caress your cheeks and whisper sweetly in your ears.

I know — I lie.

Thoughts were never more than threads of illusion;

they do not whisper, they touch no place in you.

Had my thoughts been things, I would have killed my father a thousand times and returned to you —

I would have returned yesterday, and not tomorrow do I return.