the spindle of the day

As usual,
The night borrows its fingers
to the spindle of the day.
As usual
the day plays with its suns
to float like signboards
over the roofs of cities.

A sun jumps like a sparrow,
embroiders the air's hair
with school ribbons
and sweeps the pavements
with steps celebrating their preliminary passion.
A sun rushes like a stab
loading the pores of the air
with the dynamite lust
to explode in the copybooks of the innocent time
a dance for the fire ghouls.


The sun of the killers
could not pass easily
since it pours a galaxy of black absentmindness
in Buddha's pillow
and it stutters the dew's dialogue with itself
in the body of the rose
when it fills the boxes of the under world
with mother's tears.
The sun of the killers will never pass easily
on the poem's ground.


Another sun collects what scattered
from the night's buttons,
accompanies a husband's leave,
his wife's milky bed with bitter eyes
leaves the dizziness of his hot lemon
in the wilderness of her henna.
A sun spreads like a disease.
It wears a turban swelled with the desert surnames.
declaring a rosary from the caves,
This sun too, could not pass easily.
It draws the childhood gardens
to shake hands with the guns
and it shackles the statures of the wave
with the foam virility
when it smears the nightingales' sky
with the songs of mud
when they set up a kingdom of bitch dark images
on the ash brains.


Many suns roll from the day's spindle
a sun takes the moaning off
in the honey travel between two bodies,
a sun rubs its lust with the apples of loneliness,
a sun hanging around in a deserted paradise,
a sun fights for its share of the past dust
a sun stands thirsty above the roses,
as a scarecrow
as sun draws its holy pulse
to strike off the fog instructions
a sun squats in the begging bins,
a sun stretches out in a peacock's luxury,
a sun loaded with raindrops,
a sun sweats cataracts of rust,
a sun opens a tomb for the adolescence of fertility,
a sun opens a moist cloud for the senility of the dryness,
a sun crowds to reserve tickets of the absence,
and a sun marries the absence to avoid the presence.


This sun crosses the day's limits
 to sink in the width of the night.
This sun remains like a mother
it is the wake of words from the ink pot of insomnia
to write down all these suns.



Translated from the original Arabic by Poet and Translator: Soheil Najm