We travel like everyone else, but we return to nothing. As if travel were

a path of clouds. We buried our loved ones in the shade of clouds and

between roots of trees.

We said to our wives: Give birth for hundreds of years, so that we may end this journey

within an hour of a country, within, a meter of the impossible!

We travel in the chariots of the  Psalms, sleep in the tents of the prophets

and are born again in the language 0f the Gypsies.

We measure space with a hoopoe’s beak, and sing so that distance may forget us.

We cleanse the moonlight. Your road is long so dream of seven women to bear

this long journey on your shoulders. Shake the trunks of palm trees for them.

You know there names, and which one will give birth to the son of Galilee.

Ours is a country of words: Talk. Let me rest against a stone.

Ours is a country of words: Talk. Let me see an end to this journey.

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