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.