We didn't disturb the drowsy winds, we just walked away accompanied by the salty dawn and the howling of dogs. We had left untouched islands there, angels' coal in the vaults, God's broken trunks and a bereaved eternity. Oil spots on our clothes, walked with us, and the fat of dreams. Some of us carried in our hearts, broken carts, and dead livestock. The howling of the dogs stayed with us until we disappeared Under our feet, on the road, we heard a strange moaning. *** Hi, you! I have already arrived like an unusual, exotic fruit. Give me a cigarette. I have amazing tales to tell about kings, battles and urns; about people found by chance by the wind, and souls of fish on the sands. These are tales only for you. Give me a cigarette. *** I carry with me many hills I want to sell, hills overlooking oceans where whales are dancing around those who have drowned; overlooking bays were resorts could be built for other enchanted lives. Hills, hills, pay whatever you like and take everything. *** We didn't awaken those who were sleeping nor did we utter a word. We only heard the last words of the doors which were squeaking as we walked in or out. We left pictures on the walls, a scent of olives in the corner, loads of tales spread out on tobacco racks and your head, oh Riyadh, aflame with falling stars. *** We arrive incomplete on crutches, in the streets. *** Wherever we go we leave a part of us behind. Our eyes and feet remain there. Thus, when we walk, the roads will not feel us. If it rains, eyes will shed tears somewhere else. Give me a cigarette. From the smoke, God will appear with wealth, heaven, and splendour. Shawki is my friend but he will soon become a railway track. Before this happens I would like to smoke a cigarette with him. All Sydney's lines pass through his head in Sydenham, and he is about to burst out – 'give me a cigarette.' *** Khodr, who threw away his gun in the mountains, has become like a letter with no address. He could be posted from one post office to another but never reach his destination. Out of smoke, the road appears and houses with their owners. Out of smoke', God is born. Give me a cigarette. When I return, I'll send you loads of tobacco from our spreading racks, and baskets of fruit and eggs from hens we have fattened from the grains of our dreams; they lay wealth, which I'll send you. One day we invented veins for silence, we would walk ahead, threading them into the path. We walked in the harsh air, buckling the road and we could see breasts trembling. We could see beneath the bridge, the offal from living creatures and chunks of eyes search for their vision. Listen ! We have seen life shivering beneath a tree and we took off our shirts to cover it. We walked on with bare chests and the air as our companion, bringing us flowers and playing with our hair. It brought us a stare lost by somebody while watching daylight fade. *** With us - bracelets. With us - streets. With us - shadows. With us - air and reeds. In our bags is the rustle of photographs, the bandages of longing and the sound of crutches stumping from mountain to mountain. We walked on. In front of our door there was leaf from an almond tree. We looked at it but kept on walking. Anise, his eyes like two clouds over a grove of orange trees, the veins of his fingers like dry pencils, with grains of dreams being pecked from his lips by a bird. Ghassan played his lute all the way until the streets became its notes. *** We have nothing except the smell of tobacco and olives that we'd carried with us. We walked ahead lightly so we didn't disturb the dew. We didn't bend a branch nor waken the breeze. We didn't say goodbye to our friend, we didn't utter a word, we simply walked on. _______________ Translated by Anne Fairbairn