^{translated from the Arabic by Tayseer Abu Odeh and Sherah Bloor}

The woman in her wedding dress is not a poem, no
poem could outsmart her brother.
The women dancing in the wedding hall
are not poems either and neither is their father, stood 
in the corner
gathering up the years of his life, year by year. 
The mother feeds her children the day’s honey 
with affection and a little cunning.
Just before the wedding this morning, 
the women rushed to the market,
No poem is equal to a woman who’s decided 
to move on
Her hand began to perspire in yours. That was 
before the war.
War was waiting down the road. Then 
a taxi tore past.
There was that midnight longing 
the early days of love.
But be less poetic about it.
Your heart is going to break in new ways.
 

ﻛﻦ أﻗﻞ ﺑﻼﻏﺔ

ﻛﻦ أﻗﻞ ﺑﻼﻏﺔ
اﳌﺮأة في ﺛﻮب زﻓﺎﻓها ليست ﻗﺼﻴﺪة
...ﻻ ﺷﻌﺮ أﺟﻤﻞ ﻣﻦ أخ ﻳﻤﺴﻚ ﻳﺪ أﺧﺘﮫ اﻟﻌﺮوس ﻳﻮم اﻟﺰﻓﺎف
وﻻ اﻟﻔﺘﻴﺎت اﻟﻠﻮاتي ﻳﺮﻗﺼﻦ ﻛﻦّ ﻗﺼﺎﺋﺪ
وﻻ اﻷب اﻟﺬي ﻳﻘﻒ في زاوية اﻟﺼﺎﻟﺔ هناك
ﻳﻠﻤﻠﻢ ﺳﻨﻮات اﻟﻌﻤﺮ ﺳﻨﺔ، ﺳﻨﺔ... ا
اﻷم االتي ﺗﺮﺿﻊ أﻃﻔالها ﻋﺴﻞ اﻷﻳﺎم
ﻣﻦ ﻣﻜﺮ وﻋﺎﻃﻔﺔ
. ..وﻣﺎ ﻳﺠﺮي ﻗﺒﻞ اﻟﻌﺮس ﺳﺎﻋﺔ اﻟﻐﺪاء
ﻣﺸﺎوير اﻟﻔﺘﻴﺎت إلى اﻟﺴﻮق
عودتهنّ ﺑﺎﻟﻌﻄﺮ
واﻟﻔﺮح المستعجل في البيت
ﻻ ﺷﻌﺮ أﺟﻤﻞ ﻣﻦ اﻣﺮأة ﻗﺮرت أن تمضي
،شعرها خصرها
يدها التي تعرّقت بيديك
قبل الحرب
الشارع الذي احتضن خطواتكما الأولى
!...نحو ما لا تدريان
الخوف من المجهول الذي ينتظركما نهاية الشارع
اللهفة المستعجلة