Because desolate rooms are beds for the poetry
     that kills
I sob,
I dry up like trees.
The days still as the rocks
    send the calls of blind boats.

Sharpshooter
aim your gun at my heart
Whisper your bullets like a lover into my ear
In vain I raise my anguish to the skies
Let their roads
   be empty except for
My voice and
My echo.

Translated from the Arabic by Kamal Boullata.