The disc of my life will soon fall into my lap

Not much will happen after that

Those I wished I could meet have died

The country I dreamt of became a rap song in a distant car

The horses I raised as a child bit into my arm

and there is no sign they are letting go

 

At any event

My bottle of ink is large and it seems like I will not live long enough to empty it

 

The poems I wished writing I vitrified into his shrouds

 

I taught the octopuses that have climbed out of my back how to feel for his absence

 

I sit atop a rock of longing

and wait for the wind to give me shape

I may turn into a blackbird with a wide eye

a deep and wide eye

through which I shall see my new disc of life

and probably will not remember I was my own self

nor that this tree

which will become my home

was something unknown, as if it was my father.

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Translated by Adam Zuabi