Martil
It’s okay to veer toward Tetouan,
to stay a while,
to be released from a pair of pliers, the two mountains
that have gripped Tetouan since Tetouan rose,
a white
dove
in a cage of mountains.
There is no escape but to the open sea,
the sand that saves us from touching rock,
the water where we land as if falling into a secret—
Atlantis has dissolved in the slow waves of sleep.
We are now in Martil
between blue blue and white,
between sea and sand,
between one cup and another.
We are barefoot in the nearly deserted old bar,
that still sports a Spanish look from a bygone age.
A cat comes,
a cat must come to join us
to nudge the field forward into the night.
German Trains
Where are all these trains taking their passengers?
They roar at dawn,
at night,
at noon.
Even the pillow trembles in fear of these trains,
the neighborhood willow shudders,
the beer hall door,
the Asian store,
and Buddha’s statue.
Even the dew is shivering.
Where are they taking their passengers?
Where will they cast them?
Where are they heading?
The world has regained its senses—we know that.
Yet . . .
. . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . .
These trains are going in the opposite direction
(toward stations from two centuries ago)
rumbling with their passengers,
their unsuspecting passengers.
Translations from the Arabic