From Zakaria Mohammed, Zarawand (Ramallah: Dar al-Nashir, 2020).
1.
It is best not to be here even when you are. To be a stranger in a familiar land, ostracized in the land of your tribe. It is even best to spray paint on a wall, “I'm not from here,” and then shake off your wings and fly with the intention of never returning.
I'm not speaking of light estrangement, but rather of winds and cyclones. Of rain trickling down around comets. He who has a wing will never be a stranger. The most important thing is to be vigilant. Never let a vine catch you unawares and climb your shoulder to tie its stem to your lapel. If you allow that, you will become a peg. More beautiful than all of this is to be a balloon: a handful of air will lift you to the skies and a pinprick will erase you in seconds.
2.
Listen! I am a marble statue. You can break my hand. There is no pain. You can break my foot as well. I have nowhere to walk in this marble. I have been standing here for ages, and I have seen enough.
Listen! I am a word written with chalk on the board. Erase me with your palm. Do not be afraid of the void I will leave behind. My existence is not real. The students are in their seats, and they want new names. Their mouths want to chew on other words.
3.
I don't send you short letters. But I pour milk in the clay pot so it ferments in silence, just for you.
Like an ant, I drag wheat from my house and put it in your path.
I am a long line of wheat seeds, just for you.
A long invisible line.
4.
I put wounds in a bag and throw it on the horse. They are provisions for my journey. Life is licking sutured wounds. Incessantly. No. Life is reopening sutured wounds.
There are so many stars above my head. More than necessary. I only need one star to reach my destination. So, I keep my eye on the labyrinth star and follow it.
No one owes me anything. Nor do I owe anyone anything.
I settled my accounts before sitting on the back of my horse.
I will stray far and delve deep.
5.
My being is three pyramids. Like the ones in Giza. There are no tourists. I am the only tourist. I climb them at daybreak. One after the other.
My being is three antelopes on the dunes. I hunt them. I hold my bow. Sand quickens under my feet. They escape and run away.
6.
I sing at night so that the day may be its sibling. How else would I make sure that my two dumb donkeys, night and day, stay together?
They will slip away if I don't tie them with this thick rope of singing.
Take what glues your night to your day from me.
Take what makes your thread slip off your needle too.
What makes you strangers even to yourselves.
