By MARINE JABBOUR
Black ink runs in my veins.
I shouldn’t have died a thousand times to live once
Life takes everything and strolls. –heart pain–
After pain, love, and death party in one river.
And the pain of the river flows in my heart, hey,, I never enjoyed geography to pursue my drowning soul
I sit, not wanting to see you..
You cut my veins
Who made this table? French-made. O K.
I walk, and wonder why do I see all these strangers on the road?
Vision dissolves in coats and odd shapes.
I decided to ask a traveler about you on my way. I made sure he was not French like that table.
I know you live in New York.
You could be here; you could be in New York.
Who made that table?
Don’t you ever touch my hand,
فليس لي في هذه الحياة سوى الكتابة لأتنفس
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