The Poetess Who Was Tortured By A Glass Of Water Poem by Eiz Qarqash

I peek all I can
Through the beads covering the window;
A table, a pencil, or a pen, and a fan,
That's all what she needed to write a poem,
But something her thoughts would ban.
I still peek all I can.

She was the torrid brightness of weather.
She was the chandelier thither.
She reminded me of my former table lamb I used to put hither.

Then she would touch the hair with her hands,
And lay her head on the table.
Her head was full of imagined deserted lands,
And of thirsty people a fable.

She remained the same months now,
Looking at her with a streched brow.
God our neighbor, the poetess, died,
Not having at all cried.
And now thinking of what banned her earlier thoughts,
Was it an ocean full with boats?
And on one of them a lost sailing pauper?
No, all what she wanted was merely a glass of water.