Like a stylish barber
A poem by Mohammed Hasan Al-Quzahi
translated by Hatem Al-Shamea
You’ll never grasp this rain,
It’s rustling,
As it carves a path
Through windowpanes,
Stirring painted butterflies
On the wall,
And moves along a road
Of melancholy,
Scattering old wounds
And searching for dreams
Life has gifted me.
You won’t understand
If I say I’m no fortune teller,
Nor do I enjoy reading
The lies fortune-tellers write.
I’m not concerned with those who’ve left
Their dreams at city gates
Or adorned gardens
With birds.
Nor do I care for those dense stars
Crowded around you.
I only care
To sweep this night
From your face
Like a stylish barber,
So you may sit enthroned
On your silver throne
In the heart of the sky
In a solitude
Where no one else can dwell.
