The darkness of this night is greater
than the power of a sultan.
Ink from my books, shelf upon shelf of them,
streams down the curtains.
Every book is an overturned inkwell.
Patience, I say. Day will dawn,
And the colours begin to spread. Snatching the brush,
I strive to paint the curtains the rose of dawn,
and the walls, green.
Now waves come washing in, blue flecked with white,
above the shelves.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem