An Afternoon at Snowfall
I'm not here.
What a shame, tomorrow day will break
and I won't be here anymore.
Shame, I won't be here tomorrow
when someone opens the window,
when someone writes a name
on the window's mist,
when someone waters the flower pots
and, with an intense gaze,
observes the confusion of fallen sparrows.
I'm not here.
What a shame, I won't be here tomorrow
when someone,
still drenched in a blue dream,
slowly staggers towards the mirror,
runs the tap,
and tells the lonely man in the mirror -
a man who has turned to mist,
to a grain of sand,
to a drop of dew -
You silly thing, what a strange dream I had about you!
I swear, you came into my dreams
more than a hundred times last night.
I'm not here
What a shame, I won't be here
when, in the light snowfall one morning,
his heart racing,
somebody suddenly starts worrying without reason,
wishing that someone,
someone who no longer walks the streets,
someone who no longer walks out the door,
or stares out the window,
will walk past
and say:
I haven't seen you for ages, my friend!
I'm not here.
Shame, I won't be here tomorrow
when someone in a fast train
passes by a small brooding cloud
above a mournful station
and, having a sudden premonition,
calls to the cloud,
raises his hand,
turning round to look back
as it vanishes out of sight,
muttering under his breath:
Maybe that's him?
Maybe that's the one who doesn't exist,
someone who can't ever stop
at a single station anywhere.
I'm not here.
Shame, I won't be here
when in a drizzly hour one morning
in a library --
a library dressed in a tarboush
and a suit,
a library stuffed full of musty books --
a sad poem, sitting in
its own attic of solitude --
a poem which still gazes expectantly
and speaks as clear as a mirror --
is picked up by someone,
the kindest person in the world,
who takes it by the hand
and helps it off the shelf.
Together they leave for
a teahouse near the library
where they sit in the sun
and laugh in the rain,
and putting their hands in their pockets,
they whistle in the snow.
As the world passes by,
they think about life, considering
all the the things that are important
all the things that are simple
and new.
They condsider the things
that have been fenced off,
that have been disappeared
and pushed to one side.
They consider a poem
that has not come to life.
They consider an infant
wrapped up in a blanket patterned with butterflies.
They consider an orange seller.
They consider a kite threaded to childhood.
They consider their morning sweet tea.
They consider a blade of grass.
They consider a baby sparrow
risking its first flight through the rain.
They consider a crushed can
tinkling downstream at siesta-time.
I'm not here.
Shame I won't be here
when a door is opened
but no one walks through.
When a window is open
but no pollen-down drifts in with the evening.
When a ladder dies from waiting
for someone to climb it
carrying a bunch of grapes
up to the roof on a warm summer night.
When a road pines away from loneliness
and no one gives it a hug.
When a tree collapses
and no one remembers its colours.
When a garden is overgrown
and its flowers are never worn anymore.
I'm not here.
Shame I won't be here
when you come out to the courtyard one evening
and it isn't me
whose finger presses the doorbell,
waiting by the door
with a heart full of doubt like green grapes.
I'm not here.
Shame I won't be here
when in a cold hour one winter afternoon
you walk out all worried
and it won't be me
who stares like a child at the rising wind
and the falling rain.
I'm not here.
Shame I won't be here
when one afternoon at snowfall
you walk through the city looking for me.
You search for me under the wing of a bat.
You knock on the door of an ant friend of mine;
worried, you ask, Haven't you seen him today?
You stop a drunk squirrel's truck.
You enter an owl's florist shop.
You coo along with a pessimistic pigeon.
You stop by a garden related to me
to look through the closed fists of flowers.
You search through the straw under the house of a stork,
in the beaks of fledgling sparrows,
in the claws of a hedgehog.
You look through the depths of a drop of water for me,
you search under a ladybird's feet,
beneath a crumb of clay,
inside the warm heart of a stalk of wheat,
in the bitterness of a haw,
under a bruised leaf of basil,
beneath the tongue of a speechless cicada,
in the corner of a dank pocket of a story,
in the iris of a bead,
in the sleeve of a rhubarb stalk,
on the roof of a fresh smell,
in the middle of a bundle of dreams,
under the skin of a snowflake,
in the heartbeat of a pomegranate seed --
in everything.
You will search for me in everything.
What a shame that at that sad hour of the afternoon
you'll be looking for me
but I won't be here,
what a shame that
on this afternoon as snow falls
I'm
not
here
anymore.
The Snowfall Hour of an Afternoon
I'm not here.
What a shame, tomorrow the day will break
and I'm not here anymore.
Shame, I won't be here
when someone tomorrow
will open the window,
when someone tomorrow will write a name on
the window's mist,
when someone tomorrow will water the flower pots
and with eyes full of stare
will gaze at the doubts of the fallen sparrows.
I'm not here.
What a shame, I won't be here
when someone tomorrow
drenched in a blue dream
will slowly stagger towards the mirror,
run the tab of the basing,
and tell the lonely man in the mirror-
a man who has turned into a cloud of dust,
who has turned into a grain of sand
turned into a drop of dew-
O monkey!
What a strange dream I had about you.
I swear, last night you were more than a hundred times
in my dream.
I'm not here
What a shame, I won't be here
when, in the light snowfall of one morning
somebody
will unreasonably start worrying,
his heart will suddenly think many things,
he imagines a thousand things
he will wish that someone,
someone who does not walk the roads anymore,
someone who does not walk out of the doors,
someone who does not stare out of the windows,
will walk past him
and tell him:
Long time no see, my friend!
I'm not here.
Shame, I won't be here
when someone tomorrow
in a fast train
will pass by a small cloud
which is thoughtful before a distressed station,
and his heart will suddenly have an omen,
he will suddenly call the cloud,
raise his hand,
until the furthest point in the world
he will turn to look at it,
and he will say under his breath:
Might it be him?
Might it be the person
who does not exist,
someone who no longer
stops
at any station in the world?
I'm not here.
Shame, I won't be here
when in a drizzly hour of one morning
in a library -
a library which wears a tie
and a head dress,
perfumed with the sweat of books-
a sad poem, sitting within
the attic of its own loneliness-
a poem which is still staring
and speaks as clearly as a mirror-
will be picked up by someone.
Someone, the kindest person in the world
will go under the poem's armpit
and help it off the shelf
and together they will go out,
together in a teahouse near the library
they will sit under the sun,
they will laugh together under the rain,
they will put their hands into their pockets
and start whistling under the snow,
they will look together and underline life,
they will underline
all the things
which are important
which are simple
and new.
They will underline all the things
that have been barricaded,
that have disappeared
and have been sidelined.
They will underline a poem
which has not grown,
an infant wrapped in a blanket
printed with butterflies.
They will underline an orange grocer,
a kite which is tied to
the string of childhood.
They will underline the morning's sweet tea,
a thread of grass,
a new sparrow
hoping to fly through the rain for the first time,
they will underline a crumpled tin
singing in a stream's summer noon.
I'm not here.
Shame, I won't be here
when a door opens wide
and no one walks out from it,
when a window opens
and no autumn butterfly
will walk its evening,
when waiting kills a ladder
and no one will climb it
carrying a bunch of grapes
to the summer roof in the evening,
when a road pines away from loneliness
and no one will give it a hug,
when a tree ruins
and no one will take one of its colours,
when a garden grows old
and no one will wear one of its flowers on their collar.
I'm not here.
Shame, I won't be here
when you will come to the courtyard one evening
and it won't be me
whose finger is on the bell,
waiting behind the door
with a heart full of doubt like young grapes.
I'm not here.
Shame, I won't be here
when in a winter hour of one afternoon
you will walk out all worried
and it won't be me
who childishly stares at the innocence of the wind
and the extension of the rain.
I'm not here.
Shame, I won't be here
when one stormy hour of an afternoon
you will walk the city searching for me.
You will search for me in the armpit of a wet bat,
you will knock on the door
of an ant friend of mine,
you will get worried and ask:
have you not seen him today?
You will stop the Pick-up of a drunk squirrel,
you will enter the shop
of a florist owl,
you will start cooing
with a pessimistic pigeon,
you will stop by a garden relative
and search the closed fist of a flower for me.
You will search
under a strand of hay before the house of a stork,
in the beak of a sparrow-chick,
under the nails of a hedgehog.
You will search
the depth of a drop of water for me,
under the feet of a ladybird,
under a grain of clay,
in the warm palm of a wheat stalk,
in the sourness of a hawthorn fruit,
under the stem of a hurt basil,
under the tongue of a dumb zikzike,
in the bottom of the damp pocket of a story,
the iris of a bead,
the sleeve of a stem of rhubarb,
on the roof of a young smell,
inside a bundle full of dreams,
under the thin skin of a snowflake,
in the heartbeat of a grain of pomegranate,
in everything
you will search for me in everything.
What a shame in that unfortunate hour
of the afternoon
you will be looking for me
but I won't be here
what a shame
in the snowfall hour of that afternoon
I'm
not
here
anymore.