The ghost raining in the bus
From Arabic Dr. Yousef Hanna | Palestine
By Fathi Muhadub | Tunisia
I am no longer visible.
I am no longer a righteous child of the Law of gravitation
Nor a good friend of pub-goers
Nor the one called upon in the amazing gardens.
I am no longer anything in the heavenly kingdom
Whenever I see you laughing on the bus
Or pulling two meters of pure sleep from the garden of your head,
I call you like a dying cloud on the edge of your shoulders.
As long as you don’t hear the rain in my words,
I cry so long…
I stare at the details of your face,
I say: Your winged eyes may hear me
May your imagination full of the eyes of philosophers see me.
May your heart cry out with Galilean certainty.
There he is, in nowhere.
You get off the bus
Like a prayer from a church window
I follow you
Your shoe heel showers me with music.
Your Parisian perfumes attracts me
Your embroidered hat with silver and tears.
Your shadow that goes into a fatal deficiency.
Wagons pass laden with the scent of the earth.
The Smell of Sleeping Ancestors in the Table of Elements.
Cyclists crossing the Nostalgia Bridge.
Mom looks out from the narrow balcony
She is calling my name, that disappeared by surprise from the world.
Wolves that you have raised, in the winter of last year, ass through the heights of my texts.
I align you and release a flood of words
And when you don’t care about my broken glassy voice,
I cry so long…
On the side of nothing.
And when you reach your home, to which I made pilgrimage repeatedly
You sweetly bring in the butterflies of the fields
Then, I fully realized that I had been dead a little over a month ago.
A train loaded with prisoners hit me
In a very dangerous place.
But I’m still tracking you like a flying saucer.
