Before day sinks into the night’s archipelagoes,
I will leave the raft hidden in my heart –
my mother’s prayers.

They share only silence
for they once divided grief.
Earth and sky apart, and so are they.

Death feeds on the sand.
Seasons tuck their grief in their hearts.
Even grass weeps.

The train rushes on, carrying memories.
Laughter hovers over the fields like old souls.
She wished someone had been awaiting her at the next stop.

Cities enveloped in barbed wire –
untouchable. To survive their spikes,
only souls can slip inside.

The harbor still awaits those who return.
Uncounted years have flown by since they left.
Those who leave never come back, just like you.

Rain taps our shoulders; we like to get wetter.
The same word falls over the heart
that can’t stand the sting anymore.

A torn cloud above the sea.
A wounded heart on the sand.
The sun sets, uncaring.

I speak to trees
all day long and
dream of them at night.

The train back empty.
Fatigue floats on night’s layers.
City lights flicker till the morning.

In Paradise now –
what are you doing alone? Reading Pushkin?
Or listening to Cesária Évora?

Behind those eyes,
so many tears. The child deep inside my soul
weeps for our old days.

An excerpt from The Sea and the Horizon, Nujoom Al-Ghanem, translated from the Arabic by Ibrahim Fawzy, Penguin Books.