The slumber of the night

In the Courtyards of Necessary Good

When the necessary good occurs,

I was once a ruby of precious stone,

a little jasmine,

never one to surrender,

never to underestimate the omens

of the words that rise from me.

I discern

what I want—

yet it does not reveal itself.

But my depths are full.

I have lived an age

without yielding

to the waves of longing.

A flood of silver letters

now lies still,

and that inkwell and those pens

have grown rusty

from so little speech.

Forgive me,

my quiver has not run dry,

but the turns of time

have left a little weariness

in my joints.

I cannot sleep.

Forgive me, flock of doves

upon my balcony,

I only wish to sleep.

Exile,

flight,

hiding behind walls;

steadfastness,

remaining,

and the boundaries of time.

There is no chain upon the word,

no limit upon the human being.

My perfume bottle is empty,

and my navy-blue pen

can no longer reveal

what has happened

to the woman within me.

No one knows

what happened in the drowsiness of night,

or beneath the rising full moon,

or through the cutting

of the chrysanthemum flower.

I still play

in the waters of the sea,

wearing my flowered dress

and my braids.

I still gaze

at the clear sky and the stars,

and whisper my prayer

in the middle of the night:

I pray that I may be

accepted by You,

O Almighty.

Nadra

13 August 2026