[A] You demand a poem. I can give you only this:

A piece of my voice bone to gnaw on, your memory, which I don't want to forget or remember, glass beads, cheap because they fall often from the box hidden behind my eye, this one which sees cold night clutch the heart again, if you need sight, this line of words on your palm, each falling one after another, henna for your wedding night, this night, every night.

[B] In the street of lights women gather to sing wedding songs. The bride sits in the center, flaming like the lamp. Worlds adorn her, she adorns herself, eyes turn to the sky, stars stud her robes. The poet sits in the tarven, drinking and laughing In the moonlight.

She didn't invite him, forgetting he is called the moon!

[C] She shows me her palm and demands her fortune to be told in verse.

I, the fortune teller, who deciphers lines in glib lines, fall silent.

The sword has cut me in two. Her hands are covered in blood!

[D] How does one bind her, whose hair falls like the rain? How does one answer her, pensive her, whose silences shatter on skin like tears? Someone tell me, how does one love her, the dark eyed her, who moves like a cloud and makes the days disappear?