Hey Allen Ginsberg, I think that the fan is rotating

Artwork by Ira Joel

Listen Allen

I am on the curb and my cigarettes ran out

I open my eyes and close them

Sometimes I recall that night when we wiped the spit from the mouths of the dead

Then we descended the stairs together

And took a walk by the sea

The fan is rotating now

And I like to think that the air is a nice squirrel while I lean on myself in the corner

Witnessing my knee falling asleep

The fan is rotating now in my head Allen

And my mouth that looks like a newsstand

Is adorned with silence

Some teeth inside it dies like an animal

And one day I happened to discover patience under a tree

And I talked about the soul in a simple car

While we walk parallel to the river

The smoke Allen

The smoke, and beautiful rings

And on the other side, on the shore

The sand stands by itself

And sometimes the fish bring it a rock

To sit on

Is this a respectful scene?

In my hands a murdered day

And I want to bury it quietly

~Wadih Saadeh, trans. Maged Zaher