I cried too much
On simple and small things
I cried and I know that grief is great to cry
And that crying is like a ring of keys
Ringing in the pocket of grief
And they both sleep in a room overlooking the empty street
Like two brothers
Sadness sits near the window in silence
The weeping drowns his voice into the pillows and the sleeves

There are shadows behind curtains writing poetry
And I know that when I read what they wrote
I will cry too
I know that something… dimmed
will hold my heart and wave the dry leaves
All that the wind has carried
Will be back
And I will fall like the light on the only road
To listen to poetry and love

There is a door knock at night
And I like to think it is an echo
The poetry that is forbidden to write poems
The story of a man turned into a song to deliver a message
Or the story of a woman whose departure breaks into small stones
And she kept throwing her stones
From a vast window
And hearing the sound of them falling in the palm of the road
And hearing the sound of old gravel
Which was thrown by an old girl
She says: There are sounds that knock the door at night
And messages flying and crying

Marwa Melhem