In my sleep Mohammed spoke
and I woke up
struggling with equipment
a helpless elder with fingers too weak
to bend the bits around the neck.
The Prophet expressed his relief
that his words
were of no interest
to postmodern theorists.
He was (he said) just another poet.
Like the Uzbek films of Ali Khamraev
his visions were spaced as if
in God's mercy
or from it, he didn't tell me which.
One can see the shape but not the face
Now it's time
to recognize what was never intended
Dreams alone are their own reward.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem