The air, misshapen.
The country’s entrails, shredded by its children’s fingernails,
the crossroads robed in dust lit up by their wrinkles,
arrayed in clothes woven from their steps.
Who will tell the crossroads: no,
do not share your secrets with us.
We no longer expect the magic of going our separate ways there,
nor the bliss of reunion.
translated by Pierre Joris & Samira Hassan