شُرْفَةُ جَدَّتِي

تَتَدَلّى كَغَيْمَةٍ نَسِيَتْ مَكَانَهَا فِي السَّمَاءِ

والمطرُ

يَمُرُّ عَلَى الخَشَبِ الرَّطْبِ

كأنَّهُ يَتَعَلَّمُ نُطْقَ اسْمٍ قَدِيم

هُنَا

كَانَ الغُصْنُ

ذِرَاعًا لِلرِّيحِ

يَتَدَلّى وَيَنْسَى مَنْ يُلَوِّحُ لَه

والنعناعُ

يُصْغِي لِخُرْسِ المَاءِ

وَيَغْرِسُ وَجْهَ الزَّمَنِ

فِي طِينٍ بَاردْ

كُلُّ شَيْءٍ كَانَ يَنْتَظِر

كَمَدِينَةٍ فِي الحُلْمْ

تُصْغِي لِخُطَى مَارٍّ لَا يَعُود

والمِزْهَرِيَّةُ

تَتَنَفَّسُ كَأَنَّهَا زُجَاجُ غِيَابْ

يَشْهَقُ عِنْدَ مَرُورِ الهَوَاءِ

يا جَدَّتِي

كَانَ الصَّبَاحُ يَأْتِي مُتْعَبًا

يَحْمِلُ عَلَى ظَهْرِهِ بَقَايَا اللَّيْلِ

وَكُنْتِ

تُرَمِّمِينَ ضَوْءَ البَيْتِ

بِإِبْرَةِ الصَّمْتِ

وَتَخْطِينَ فِي الهَوَاءِ اسْمًا

يَتَفَلَّتُ كَالدُّخَانْ

حِينَ غِبْتِ

صَارَتِ الشُّرْفَةُ نَهْرًا

لَا يَعْبُرُهُ أَحَد

وَالنَّبَاتُ

يَمِيلُ كَمَنْ يَسْمَعُ نِداءً بَعِيدًا

لَا يُسَمِّيهِ أَحَد

وَأَنَا

كُلَّمَا مَرَرْتُ هُنَا

أَسْمَعُ المَطَرَ

يُرَدِّدُ أُغْنِيَةً لِلغَائِبِينَ:

إِنَّ البُكَاءَ لَيْسَ مَاءً

إِنَّهُ وَطَنٌ يَسْقُطُ مِنَ السَّمَاءِ

وَالشُّرَفَةُ

تَبْقَى مَشْدُودَة بَيْنَ الأَرْضِ وَالسَّحَاب

كَسَفِينَةٍ نَسِيَتْ مَاءَهَا

وَالمسَامِيرُ

تَصْدَأُ كَذَاكِرَةٍ لَا تُرِيدُ أَنْ تَمْحُوَ وَجْهًا

والشَّمسُ

تَتَسَلَّقُ الجِدَارَ بُطْئًا

ثُمَّ تَتْرُكُهُ فِي ظِلِّهِ

والماءُ

يَتَعَلَّمُ سُقُوطَهُ

كَمَنْ يَتَعَلَّمُ الصَّلَاةْ

يا جَدَّتِي

كَانَ صَوْتُكِ رِيحًا

تَمُرُّ عَلَى النَّخِيل

ثُمَّ تَضِيعُ فِي بُعْدٍ لَا يُغْلِقُ الطَّرِيق

وَأَنَا

أَحْمِلُ الشُّرْفَةَ فِي دَاخِلِي

كَجُرْحٍ يَتَنَفَّس

وَلَا يَشْفِيْهُ الزَّمَن...

MY GRANDMOTHER'S BALCONY

HANGS LIKE A CLOUD THAT HAS FORGOTTEN ITS PLACE IN THE SKY

AND THE RAIN

PASSSES OVER THE DAMP WOOD

AS IF IT IS LEARNING TO PRONOUNCE AN ANCIENT NAME

HERE

THE BRANCH

WAS AN ARM FOR THE WIND

HANGING AND FORGETTING WHO WAVES TO IT

AND THE MINT

LISTENS TO THE SILENCE OF THE WATER

AND IMPRINTS THE FACE OF TIME

IN COLD MUD

EVERYTHING WAS WAITING

LIKE A CITY IN A DREAM

LISTENING TO THE FOOTSTEPS OF A PASSERBY WHO DOES NOT RETURN

AND THE VASE

BREATHES AS IF IT WERE GLASS OF ABSENCE

GASPING AT THE PASSAGE OF AIR

O MY GRANDMOTHER

THE MORNING CAME TIRED

CARRYING ON ITS BACK THE REMAINS OF THE NIGHT

AND YOU

WERE RESTORING THE LIGHT OF THE HOUSE

WITH A NEEDLE OF SILENCE

AND STITCHING IN THE AIR A NAME

THAT SLIPS AWAY LIKE SMOKE

WHEN YOU DISAPPEARED

THE BALCONY BECAME A RIVER

NO ONE CROSSES IT

AND THE PLANTS

LEAN LIKE ONE WHO HEARS A DISTANT CALL

THAT NO ONE NAMES

AND I

EVERY TIME I PASS HERE

HEAR THE RAIN

REPEATING A SONG FOR THE ABSENT:

TRULY, TEARS ARE NOT WATER

IT IS A HOMELAND FALLING FROM THE SKY

AND THE BALCONY

REMAINS TIGHT BETWEEN THE EARTH AND THE CLOUD

LIKE A SHIP THAT HAS FORGOTTEN ITS WATER

AND THE NAILS

RUST LIKE A MEMORY THAT DOES NOT WANT TO ERASE A FACE

AND THE SUN

SLOWLY CLIMBS THE WALL

THEN LEAVES IT IN ITS SHADOW

AND THE WATER

LEARNS TO FALL

LIKE ONE WHO LEARNS TO PRAY

O MY GRANDMOTHER

YOUR VOICE WAS A WIND

PASSING OVER THE PALMS

THEN GETTING LOST IN A DISTANCE THAT DOES NOT CLOSE THE ROAD

AND I

CARRY THE BALCONY WITHIN ME

LIKE A WOUND THAT BREATHES

AND TIME DOES NOT HEAL IT...