She sketched him in the froth of her coffee,
Hoping he would never leave.
She could not turn off the siren
Or the storm that leapt
Inside her cup.
She saw soldiers
Chasing him down the track,
Ordering him to surrender.
The shackles howled;
There was no turning back.
Echoes died.
Raindrops fell.
Their hopes plummeted like autumn leaves.
Their shadow cracked,
Splitting into two.
Her reflection stood lonely on the wall
As he was dragged off to prison.
His hand turned into a handkerchief
Waving goodbye
Until her window stopped exhaling their song.
Her femininity exuded letters untamed by language.
She was his sails
And his port.
He used to tie a knot,
Hanging on for life,
Because she was at the end of that rope.
Whenever they met,
His body welcomed her perfume.
Her lips and breath bore the clemency of mint.
She furnished the street
With their dreams ...
Peeping out from the cloak of night,
Stealing through the cracks of doors
Like seeds of light.
From the ashes of his concessions
He made her a wreath
Worthy of an angel of jasmine.
It was hard for him to leave.
The flute was burning in his chest
While the wind snatched from her pillow
The messages of oranges.
He was forced to go.
She stood there
Raining him with her panic,
Leaving him her footsteps
And the trembling thoughts
attached to the soles of her feet.
Hoping he would never leave.
She could not turn off the siren
Or the storm that leapt
Inside her cup.
She saw soldiers
Chasing him down the track,
Ordering him to surrender.
The shackles howled;
There was no turning back.
Echoes died.
Raindrops fell.
Their hopes plummeted like autumn leaves.
Their shadow cracked,
Splitting into two.
Her reflection stood lonely on the wall
As he was dragged off to prison.
His hand turned into a handkerchief
Waving goodbye
Until her window stopped exhaling their song.
Her femininity exuded letters untamed by language.
She was his sails
And his port.
He used to tie a knot,
Hanging on for life,
Because she was at the end of that rope.
Whenever they met,
His body welcomed her perfume.
Her lips and breath bore the clemency of mint.
She furnished the street
With their dreams ...
Peeping out from the cloak of night,
Stealing through the cracks of doors
Like seeds of light.
From the ashes of his concessions
He made her a wreath
Worthy of an angel of jasmine.
It was hard for him to leave.
The flute was burning in his chest
While the wind snatched from her pillow
The messages of oranges.
He was forced to go.
She stood there
Raining him with her panic,
Leaving him her footsteps
And the trembling thoughts
attached to the soles of her feet.
Iqbal Tamimi (20th century) Palestine
Source: The HyperTexts
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