(Box: the Box Brownie)
In the box brownie of your head, sits the viper of your envy
swallowing the heedlessness of the road.
In the caves of your mouth, prison guards
are melting the truth in the acid of speech.
Your paper horses are lost on the road of your desolate spirit,
and your wooden God has lied to you
when you finished using certainty.
You run away from the photographer of forgetfulness
fearing he would enter you in the machine of absence.
Now you sit alone, on your last chair,
facing the deserted sea of your days.
Translated by Dikra Rida
Days are my enemies
I lock my doors in their faces,
I dust their light with rumours
about the weather
to evoke animosity between us.
When a day becomes the guest of my anger
I feed it apathy,
I water it with misery,
I cut its hours with the knives of frenzy,
and I give it an ending suitable
for defeated knights;
so I can keep a watchful eye for its mimicking brothers,
I arrange my forthcoming fights in fields
locked in the grounds of my head