Translated by Fady Joudah
In Jerusalem， and I mean within the ancient walls，
I walk from one epoch to another without a memory
to guide me. The prophets over there are sharing
the history of the holy . . . ascending to heaven
and returning less discouraged and melancholy， because love
and peace are holy and are coming to town.
I was walking down a slope and thinking to myself： How
do the narrators disagree over what light said about a stone？
Is it from a dimly lit stone that wars flare up？
I walk in my sleep. I stare in my sleep. I see
no one behind me. I see no one ahead of me.
All this light is for me. I walk. I become lighter. I fly
then I become another. Transfigured. Words
sprout like grass from Isaiah's messenger
mouth： "If you don't believe you won't believe."
I walk as if I were another. And my wound a white
biblical rose. And my hands like two doves
on the cross hovering and carrying the earth.
I don't walk， I fly， I become another，
transfigured. No place and no time. So who am I？
I am no I in ascension's presence. But I
think to myself： Alone， the prophet Mohammad
spoke classical Arabic. "And then what？"
Then what？ A woman soldier shouted：
Is that you again？ Didn't I kill you？
I said： You killed me . . . and I forgot， like you， to die.