He waits, First for a letter from a distant Country. He then waits To go to this country. He goes to the country and waits For the renewal of letters That have stopped coming.

He waits For conversations. He waits To be seen. He waits for songs And poems. He waits for the full Moon every day.

He waits, Clouds drift over it, It hides behind Curtains of lace, curtains of linen, Behind the black hair of a woman Whom the Arabs call Layla. He waits To see her rapturous face.

He waits, Sprouts roots, sprouts branches, The wind laughs at him, the rain Disguises his tears. Woodpeckers Drill his torso. He sees water, He sees people kissing in his shadow.

He waits For someone to bring him news Of the traveler. Only rumors reach Him these days. Some say she Never was and the road has no beginning. Some say she was delayed by wars, Others say that her bones have been licked Clean by lions and vultures in some desert.

He waits Always full of doubt - the negation Of belief, negated by this wait. Time moves on a straight line Which bends at the horizon To arc into a circle.

He moves on Time. Everybody does.