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Fire and Sinbad

Poem No.: 445 النص العربي: لا يوجد


Whose fire is that surrounding us

As the torches surround a naked witch?

Is it Hell's fire or Magi's fire?

Is it yearning's fire or Al-Bassos fire (1)?


During the travels of my great illusion

I tore up the dot of love.

In it I found the blank space as white as death

Or as black as the sun of a killed feast.


The letter is my heart's orchard and my blood's apple.

The letter is my master,

My blind old man who rolls me

From one mountain to another

From one desert to another

From a drowning boat to another burning

With wonderful beauty.


The drum is my blood.

The sea is my brother.

The travel is my sister.

The fire is my mother.

The letter is my sweetheart.

But who are you

You who keep screaming all the time: "Help! Help! "

Are you my son or my father?


Miserable is Sinbad

For he fights boredom and death.

As for me, I have to fight boredom,

Death and fire.

Yes, I have to eat fire every morning.

And cling to a drowning letter

To reach a land drowning every night

And floating every morning

Like Sinbad who became bored with himself

And with his home address.


1. It is a long pre-Islamic tribal war.

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