Time runs, runs
As a thief hunted by a policeman
Drawing his big gun.
As a child breathing his last breaths
In front of us; the poor who are created
Without hands and feet.
Time is an old man
As good as his white beard.
But when I wanted to bid him farewell
I was shocked by his room
Full of the remains of henna
Full of usurers, hangmen, and harlots
Together with their giggles, trifles and heavy breaths.
Time is my letters and points
Surrounding me with clock's hands.
Time is my hours that search
In vain for two good arms,
Two lips compact with warmth and blossoms.
Time is an urn in which delight
Then set at my heart's shelf.
But the black cats broke the urn.
I did not go out to drive them off
Because my heart died of bleeding,
Died of delight.
Time is a woman who stripteases
Before dogs with high backs,
Strong and delightful as their lifted tails.
Time is a mother who dropped
Her child from the iron bridge
In fear of hunger.
Thus her infant cried on his drowning brother
For full forty years.
Time is a myth that we try to draw
And modify by false colors
And stick our naive poems
On its ruined wall.
Time is my friends who died
Except that they puzzled a little
Before the ghost of love
Or the ghost of death.
Time is a candle that does not give up
And days that are seized and charged of striptease
In the markets.
Time is a lute, a tambourine, and a pipe
Drowning in the warmth of your song.
That hunts me
From one street to another,
From one house to another.
Time is unbearable noise
And infinite silly things
And clack that deafens the ears.
Time is a bullet.
You must quietly stand before its course
So that it will get your good heart!