the dog always knows
who is its master,
the master likes it
of course,
we however, remains to
be the sands in the desert
thirsting for water
thriving on tiny violets and
cactus and scorpions and
rattlesnakes,
we have refused the name of
the source of water
we infused instead the comfort
of the night
relying on the thick blankets
that we have kept for ourselves
the camels brayed,
the stones are so silent
the palms sing
the olives keep its oil
the dog barks at the
wrong tree
the moon sails and
falls upon the edge of the horizon
the riddles keep a shape
of a face shaking its head
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem