and the Galilean women were wet
with butterflies and dew,
dancing above chrysanthemum
The two absent ones: you and I
you and I are the two absent ones
A pair of white doves
chatting on the branches of a holm oak
No love, but I love ancient
love poems that guard
the sick moon from smoke
I attack and retreat, like the violin in quatrains
I get far from my time when I am near
the topography of place...
There is no margin in modern language left
to celebrate what we love,
because all that will be... was
The horse fell bloodied
with my poem
and I fell bloodied
with the horse's blood...
Mahmoud Darwish