I beg your pardon my beautiful butterfly for the explosions of some of my wandering spirit within its swarthy gloominess incarceration.

Do not ask why my wounds choose you in their balsamic journeys. For I have no authority over their options.
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Currently he is a university student.)

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Silver Water

Your mum,
How many
Silver statues
She slept with,
Intoxicated,
To replace your saliva
With silver water!

Always to the left,
Behind the first
Fold of rose,
There is a silver shine.

As though gods
And the gathering of conjurors
Bewitched,
Till numbing,
Whenever your half wetted
Smile,
With drops of silver water,
Radiates.

Written in Arabic in Sydney,30/11 / 1997. Translated by the poet.

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