I hear the axe has flowered, I hear the place can't be named, I hear the bread that looks on him heals the hanged man, the bread his wife baked him, I hear they call life the only refuge.

(Translated from the German by Ian Fairley)

Crammed into packing cases, wrapped in plastic, the limbs of dismembered masculine deities are out of sight and do not call for tears. Screaming and bitching fill the olive grove and everyone is high on triviality.

The offered lips, the immaculate skin- so you prefer the smell of own-sex sweat to that of lion, do you? Well, so be it, but I am dazzled by other illusions, vision shifted into another clef.

Serial-ism occupies my thoughts and I foresee the ivy-berry trance in which the raving maenads will disjoint me because I've wept too hotly and too long. So let it be done quickly, while I dance,

my remains serving to fatten the kites, while my bare head floats singing down the stream. You will be one of the caring and sensitive; there will be many prizes to be won and enough testicled slaves in the field.

Wait for her with an azure cup. Wait for her in the evening at the spring, among perfumed roses. Wait for her with the patience of a horse trained for mountains. Wait for her with the distinctive aesthetic knowledge of a prince. Wait for her with the seven pillows of cloud. Wait for her with strands of womanly incense wafting. Wait for her with the manly scent of sandalwood on horseback. Wait for her and do not rush. If she arrives late, wait for her. If she arrives early, wait for her. Do not frighten the birds in her braided hair. Wait for her so that she may sit in a garden at the peak of its flowering. Wait for her so that she may breathe this air so strange to her heart. Wait for her to lift her garment from her leg cloud by cloud. And wait for her Take her to the balcony to watch the moon drowning in milk. Wait for her and offer her water before wine. Do not glance at the twin partridges sleeping on her chest. Wait and gently touch her hand as she sets a cup on marble. As if you are carrying the dew from her wait. Speak to her as a flute would to a frightened violin string, As if you knew what tomorrow would bring. Wait, and polish the night for her ring by ring. Wait for her until night speaks to you thus: There is no one alive other than the two of you. So take her gently to the death you so desire, and wait.

(Translated from the Arabic by Carolyn Forché et. al)

Notes: I was very surprised to encounter such a sensous poem by one of the great poets of exile. Hear Ms. Forché read it here (begins at 3:18).