What a frustration; after all that warmness which overflowed me by falls of light, I find myself just a crippled shadow of war. I am the heir of green laughs. Here is my heart, look at it. Do you see anything except for drought? Here are my wails penetrating me like the feet of invaders which had drawn my rusty face. I am the corpse thundered by death fever. I lean down on barefooted roads as a stranger, nothing recognizes me but cold. In my darkened soul I cannot see but my groaning, my clothes are torn by stories by which I made a ragged shackle binding my lost islands. This is what I am: a dead mass dreaming of nothing. My ancestors inherited me insanity. I am, by their favor, just a heap of dark remnants, whose ghost rides on me as a blind horse so that I am good only in clashing with every palm tree, whose fruits are breezy honey. I do not see all that glory, but I see only a stone bleeding my feet, a harsh trunk cleaving my head, and my grandfathers' tales telling me what they saw when their heads were immersed in troubled water.
· Translated from Arabic by: Fareed Ghanem