I Sleep in My Inkwell and Wave to the Distant

Zakia el-Marmouke

To those who enter the fire with boats,

who touch heaven with kites,

who stuff roof holes with clouds,

who hide under beds

whenever the road stutters

in the throat of footfalls entering fog—

of footfalls that never return

from the checkpoint

which only sends back bodies;

to those who resort to the inkwell

when speech narrows,

who plant nails in their blood

whenever the wall slouches—

more and more nails

so the lover’s image does not fade

into the traffic of silence;

to those who collect their own ashes

whenever their pillow is dry,

whenever there’s absence,

who aren’t tired of waving

to loves in the distance

whenever maps are locked;

to those who venture into meadows

before the waters flow,

who keep the keys

whenever they know the doors

were stolen, who leave their crutch

on the threshold of the unknown

whenever life leaves them behind;

to those who know themselves

through their wounds

whenever the war sleeps

in their eyes

while reassuring the subjects of war;

to all those, I say: the forest begins

with a tree; let

your left hand—which keeps the throne—

shake your right hand. Maybe

dreams hatch between them.

Translated from the Arabic