Wolves Poem by Ghassan Zaqtan

The birds' departure from his heart
leaves the plains white
where the story is white
and sleep is white
and silence is the caller's icon.
A laugh of sand will sprout when the door is opened
from fear's angle, a hymn
for the grand winter, and the voices
of those who left long ago will jump like grasshoppers
when the door is opened.
Wait, wait a moment
for us to dry a moment
there's in our trace
a reckless lament
and a ceramic bird …
and watch for the necklaces on the ceiling
Why don't you turn the lights on
or be happy with sitting
and watch for the fruits on the ground
Your voice in my room exhausts the silence
the silence of pots
the silence of shelves
the silence of writing
the silence of lighting
and the silence of survival
which I have been gathering for years
with the patience of one who's alone with the garden in summer
or one who retrieves absence
the absence
that never stops.