by Fayad Jamís
On the chair a favorite book a dirty shirt
a glass full of noise and thirst
or a beach where dolphins of smoke
are meditating
Its wood has rested my bones
insubstantial air
international politics love
I’m sick of traveling
In this room which the Queen of England has never visited
in this room which groans like a lurching boat
while morning wind lashes the black spires of churches
I feel only dust ground down by light
Chair of silence of joy of dark wood
Electric chair
where every night my soul is burnt to ash
under the blind stare of the electric bulb.
Translated by Kathleen Weaver