The horse fell off the poemand the Galilean women were wetwith butterflies and dew,dancing above chrysanthemumThe two absent ones: you and Iyou and I are the two absent onesA pair of white doveschatting on the branches of a holm oakNo love, but I love ancientlove poems that guardthe sick moon from smokeI attack and retreat, like the violin in quatrainsI get far from my time when I am nearthe topography of place ...There is no margin in modern language leftto celebrate what we love,because all that will be ... wasThe horse fell bloodiedwith my poemand I fell bloodiedwith the horse’s blood ...
Mahmoud Darwish.
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