here on the slopes before sunset and at the gun-mouth of time
near orchards deprived of their shadows
we do what prisoners do
what the unemployed do
we nurture hope
a country on the verge of dawn
we have become less intelligent
because we stare at the hour of victory
there is no night in our night that shines with artillery
our enemies stay up at night
and light the darkness of cellars
here, after Job's poetry
we waited for none
this siege will last until our enemies have been taught some of our Jahili poetry
here, there is no "I"
here Adam remembers his clay
