Home

I lean over the edge of the sun and the earth turns to sulfur 

I sit with silence, clasp its waist, and sew the daylight

dive into an ant hole and read the future, 

embracing the weakness of spiders I weave my fortress

and embroider my silence on brows.  

Thus my cause rises above

thus, from on high, it bids God farewell.

Now no track leads to us save the lesson of the ant:

I am not a poet to make death verses for a homeland

that besieges me from its lowest to its future…

I am not a poet to take revenge on a metal horizon with words…

I am not a prophet to show off a staff that splits the loss into two losses,

revive the dead to die again, or fight human beings

who created the very language and alphabet of my God!

I am no god and have no desire to suffocate in a temple of misery

above a mound and fabricate a cause!

My cause, brothers, is personal, and the ant knows it,

but, like a seed, when I die, it ascends, tussling with gravity.