My darling, I have much to say Where o precious one shall I begin ? All that is in you is princely O you who makes of my words through their meaning Cocoons of silk These are my songs and this is me...
Green Tunisia, I have come to you as a lover On my brow, a rose and a book For I am the Damascene whose profession is passion Whose singing turns the herbs green A Damascene moon travels through my blood...
My son places his paint box in front of me and asks me to draw a bird for him. Into the color gray I dip the brush and draw a square with locks and bars. Astonishment fills his eyes:...
When the moon is born in the east, And the white rooftops drift asleep Under the heaped-up light, People leave their shops and march forth in groups To meet the moon...
My voice rings out, this time, from Damascus It rings out from the house of my mother and father In Sham. The geography of my body changes. The cells of my blood become green....
We are accused of terrorism: if we defended rose and woman and the mighty verse... and the blueness of sky... A dominion... nothing left therein... No water, no air... No tent, no camel,...
Do not ask me, the name of my love I fear for you, from the fragrance of perfume contained in a bottle, if you smashed it, drowning you, in spilled scent
We are accused of terrorism If we dare to write about the remains of a homeland That is scattered in pieces and in decay In decadence and disarray About a homeland that is searching for a place...