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...
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...
And of me say the fools: I entered the lodges of women And never left. And they call for my hanging, Because about the matters of my beloved I, poetry, compose. I never traded Like others...
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....
Good morning sweetheart. Good morning my Saint of a sweetheart. It has been two year mother since the boy has sailed on his mythical journey. Since he hid within his luggage...
Light is more important than the lantern, The poem more important than the notebook, And the kiss more important than the lips. My letters to you Are greater and more important than both of us....
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
raise me more love... raise me my prettiest fits of madness O' dagger's journey... in my flesh and knife's plunge... sink me further my lady... the sea calls me add to me more death ......