The martyr couldn't believe his eyes when his tomb was bombed as he braided a garland for his beloved— a red garland, yet...on the way to heaven ... it turned white. He bent toward the water with a small rainbow clutched in his hand. In this way he makes music. He lifts is hands to the clouds and braids her tears into a flower. In this way he sings. A wave breaking outside the sea. In this way I go on.
Diary of a Wave Outside the Sea [excerpt]
Through your eye
and punctured helmets pour out.
Frequent tremors occur in your land
as if invisible hands shake your trees day and night.
They blockaded you and banished the oxygen from your water,
leaving the hydrogen atoms to quarrel with one another.
Shouldn't the nations be disturbed by the face of a child
who shuts her mouth and eyes
in surrender to UN resolutions?
But they only opened their own mouths slightly,
smaller than a bud,
as if yawning or smiling.
We made room in our day for every star,
and our dead remained without graves.
We wrote the names of each flower on the walls
and we, the sheep, drew the grass
—our favorite meal—
and we stood with our arms open to the air
so we looked like trees.
All this to change the fences into gardens.
A naïve bee was tricked and smashed into a wall,
flying toward what it thought was a flower.
Shouldn't the bee be able to fly over the fence-tops?
Long lines are in front of us.
Standing, we count flasks of flour on our fingers
and divide the sun among the communicating vessels.
We sleep standing in line
and the experts think up plans for vertical tombs
because we will die standing.