From Gaza: The Poem Said Its Piece, which will be published next month by City Lights. Translated from the Arabic by Ammiel Alcalay, Emna Zghal, and Khaled al-Hilli.

The gifts I didn’t send you on war’s birthday,
the poem’s wave to me as I close the book, like it was dying of gangrene,
the bridges between my mouth and what I would say about
anything shut down,
the barracks next to the tall fence of my life,
the time spent with old neighbors before they were scattered by the shell of absence,
my dreams walking along with their old cane to a sea that couldn’t care less,
last pill in the cabinet of hope,
the beads in my rosary are endless, and I’m delirious: Gaza . . . Gaza.
Like flags of a country that defeated itself,
from the heart to the heart they came back staring into the void,
looking for old addresses in the salty mail.
As for the songs embroidered on the dress of sand,
the heart flows like a river of purified regret,
whirling like a sunflower, like a name dead to the lover, inventing doves.
Back to the heart, they came back, stripped of their longing,
nervous about how to open the suitcase of absence and let the snakes pour out,
I am delirious: Gaza . . . Gaza.