She was in my place Burning her hands when cooking, Dandling the dolls, Feeding the cats, Waiting for children to come. ... She was in my room Tearing up gospels, Scratching a cross on her chest To let the woman out Spread her own blue sheets And fluff up pillows. ... Every day she visited the graveyard To steal two flowers From her mother’s and her brother’s grave And put them on her father’s stone, Where no flowers would grow. She returned With sacks of bread and potatoes, And burned her fingers in the kitchen Once more. ... She was in my bed Dripping oil in dry pipes, Reading a book With faded lettering, Lightened by a crippled scream. ... She used to be in love. When she knew that hatred Is an art, She slept with al-Hutaya And gave birth to an army of children, Headless, In baggy trousers. ... Satan Is a nice old man, Who suffered a million years for our sake And but once spat In our faces. Therefore, It was a fair deal When she exchanged the children’s flesh For a blank notebook, Seventy five pencils And a book by Goethe. ... A left-handed, lame woman Was in my cocoon Then she flew away. ________ * A seventh-century Arab poet known for his erotic verse, his ugly face and his hatred of people. _____________ Translated by Kees Nijland