WEBVTT

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Another similar poem in short
sections called "Strings."

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"One.

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The player's fingers
climb the musical scales

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and carry me to the clouds.

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Then descend followed by
God who weeps and apologizes

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for everything.

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Two.

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The strings of the lute pool my
soul from the well of silence,

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fill my heart with the sea's
blueness, store my branches,

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pluck me scattering me far
away on an island outside time

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inside my heart.

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Three.

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This umbilical cord
extends from my heart

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to the banks of
the river far away.

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I severed it every morning
but at night nostalgia

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mends it again.

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Four.

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A thread that rains from
the needles eye in a night

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whose blackness tires
the candles as they

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count its minutes.

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A thread used by
a mother to mend

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a shirt that still remembers
the scent of the prisoner she's

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been waiting for 11 autumns.

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A shirt no one will ever wear.

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Five.

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A shelf in the
hearts archives were

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postponed deaths are stacked
next to rumors about happiness.

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Six.

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The borderline
across the provinces

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of nostalgia between a
country that never was

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and a country which
will never be.

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Whenever it is pulled
away by imagination

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their history
brings it back here.

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Seven.

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The sobbing of a
man as he clings

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to the thread running
from his fingers

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towards a white
kite still soaring

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in the skies of his
childhood outside the cell

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on his execution night.

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Eight.

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A silk thread sighs and thinks
of eloping from a black bra.

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It is fatigued and does
not want to stop the two

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breasts from kissing.

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Nine.

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An invisible ray
seizes my heart,

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the scent of a
woman who would be

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passing by me 20
years from now had she

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not died in this last war.

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Ten.

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The last line in a
manuscript who's burning

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has been delayed 8 centuries.

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Eleven.

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The migration route taken by a
rare bird and its last season

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before extinction.

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Twelve.

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The shadow of the last
palm tree in a burning

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Orchard as its fronds
comb the wind's hair

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and it is consoled by the sun.

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Thirteen.

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Perhaps the string
is merely a string

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consoling the trees crucified
in the body of the lute

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or is it just yearning for
another string crucified

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in a distant lead."

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