Book of Desert
The despicable man didn’t say any word in front of assailant Bedouins.
Horses were flaying, pillows were darting in divans,
sultans were whispering to odalisques,
and they pretended believing them.
Bedouins don’t bother anyone,
and the hidden fans awake the urbanites
in their paradises and their bathrooms.
The Bedouins reached the fire immersed with the eulogy,
the groom throw himself in the circle of the dance,
where his parents catch him and he was bristling with arms,
at the top of the mountain, the terrorists advanced on the horses…
passing the night there.
Her heart dejected for the idea that she would die by their hands.
And they tear her young body by daggers.
The Bedouins on the small horses,
in their brocaded belt the short-blades daggers,
in the mourning, the prisoners emerged to the courtyard.
Thousands of soldiers, whit naked body,
thousands of Bedouins under the hooded cloak-Bedouins resolved to discover
on the head of the victim.
As the manner of the scorpion, I spit the blood out
of my nose, venom advanced with the fire of the day.
You are the first I met…I stab myself...my spear is naked…
the tails of scorpion should sting you.
The fire should kidnap you, every night more levity than the daylight.
We came since the aurora to denude the body of the despotic.
We passed with desert …we scattered the mines inherited since the pagans,
and we prepare our self-ready to deflower her hymen.
Those are our ancestors whom the solders leaved them under the sun.
They sat till the daylight in silence of deserted court.
Flower of the sands in their hands.
By their bayonet, they write eternal things…this is the dust
of the young desert which didn’t dreamed by the Qadi,
and his eyes weren’t in the street for knowing the eyes of Bedouins
which were overburdened from mixing the horses with ground.
The desert that inhabited by the kings,
die under the time and their images,
the urban from the passions and cry like the ships that roamed in the seas.
The harlots come from the countryside…
love and work required more than night,
the waiters of the night come from the wilderness,
take in the arms chilliness of the night and the perfume of the women.
The wide night slip from the tavern,
the wide night slip from the tables,
and at the end of the night the countrywoman work in the bed…when
the waiter takes off his white apron and put out his head on the table.
She passed the night closed to tents of the Arabs,
these are their sandals, their saddles of horses, and their canes,
This is their night…advanced with
white eyes to the tent of Bedouins-women
sat circle around the fire.
Arabs lamented in their white mosquito net,
and in their divan, they put the pillows on their heads.
There she is nude, looking out Arabs
when they come down the wilderness to celebrate
the spring with the queen of the ants.