The Moor

Nathalie Handal

This is what I see:

a grain of wheat in the hand of a small boy

barefoot on the unnamed roads,

sleeping in the dream another is having.

An oud, a violin, a guitar,

a mirror of dew,

a man about to undress,

a woman staring.

A traveler

returning

everywhere

and forgetfulness

stealing from itself.

Maktoub, the Moor says,

we hold clouds in our mouth

and imagine God in our breath.