Dervish of the Hadra

Standing, gazing into my mirror,

I glimpse the moon's face,

The sun rising in my garage.

This is reality.

But the soul is pure childhood.

A happier fate,

More radiant, more beautiful than my roses.

By the balcony, I planted palm trees,

Crown roses,

Red, yellow, in shades.

I laid my brown blanket,

Some stones and sea mud,

That light.

In this exile,

Neither a cup of coffee nor my yearnings,

Quench my thirst or my needs.

For people, the land, the homeland, the enigma,

Or some of my scraps.

Not even that dervish in the presence, silent,

Or even the sheikh in prayers.

Nothing but silence,

But isolation and the horns of carriages.

A soaring height and more life,

And the heart throbbing with nitrates,

Fluttering in a robe of wishes,

Perhaps dreams will become reality,

And the whisper of songs will return to my home.