The lily seller in Mayssat Square
has sold five bouquets. One to me
that I’ll give to you
once you descend from the seventh heaven. And one to whom? I do not know.
But it certainly is to a person who is not sad. And one to the widow of the martyr,
who bought it before it became pricy
on the morning of the holiday. One to a mother
who adores wild lilies and wails: ‘Oh, my son’. And one last lily to a murderer who is willing to hide the wound of the murdered one
inside its leaves, before it’ll start to bleed. The lily seller in Mayssat Square has sold all bouquets When you screamed
my bones caught fire. You put me down, I can never rebear this picture, I was the invited but deadly guest. And now, later, I in my manhood am strange to you. You see me approach you, you think: “He is the summer, he makes my flesh and keeps While you must die every day, not together with me, I am not, I am not except in your earth. In me your life perishes in rotation, you do not
return to me, from you I do not recover.