^{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.