Electronic Thorns

Translated by Ghayde Ghraowi

The soul departing from trees of speech
Does not want to ascend 
Nor to be buried;
It wants to finish reading.
My heart is a stone that stumbled in the dirt and broke apart 
O the mud of the storm, 
heavy, it drags my soul 
From one tavern to another


My hand is a cage that forgot to lock its door
So speech flew away
I am made of music 
That departs on an evening jaunt 
To the garden of the unknown 
Wherever my sorrow comes to preside
Mud is my door  


Outside the blathering cemetery
a lone word was lost 
And began to limp 
My garden throne was forlorn; 
peopled with memories 
My heart, 
a garden filled with thrones


The signal was green 
We crossed the road to eternity 
In familiar forms of transportation 
In the furor of death
A new tree sprouted 
In fine script
Its scent is like infirmity, 
This soul


It was as it must be
I was as I must be
But we did not agree 
In a hefty handbag
I abandoned my superstition.  
The soul travels, rising, falling  
From an expensive handbag 
Out leaks my mud
Who can direct me toward mud that resembles my dust.

Originally published in the May 2019 issue of Words Without Borders. "Electronic Thorns" © Reem Allawati. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2019 by Ghayde Ghraowi. All rights reserved.