by Mohamed Dib
Do not ask
if the wind trailing
along the peaks
fans a hearth;
if it is a bonfire
if it is a poor man’s fire
or a sentinel’s signal.
Fabulous women who
close your doors, still
still soaked in night, dream on.
I walk, I walk:
the words I carry
on my tongue make
a strange report.
Last updated June 30, 2015