The Moor Poem by Nathalie Handal
The Moor
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.
Maktoûb, the Moor says,
we hold clouds in our mouth
and imagine God in our breath.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/24/2024 9:27:05 PM # 1.0.0.1119
