There is a lump in my throat:
the Englishman’s handkerchief I was force-fed years ago,
reeking of tobacco and cotton and my countrymen’s blood; a
souvenir wedged into my body.
If you want to ensure your descendants’ purity,
Kill me.

Wa yassir-li amri
I cannot speak without it tracing the contours of my words – filtering
them, giving them a foreign touch.
My exhales echo the wind carrying ships pregnant with birthright
away.
I can feel you frowning down at me from the heavens.
Bar my entry.

Wa-hlul uqdata-m millisani
The coloniser’s tongue is a muzzle in my mouth, a
machete that disfigured yours, metallic with the
blood of our languages of dirt, gripping brown
jaws shut in a cage of consonants.
I am no feller of empires.
I am no avenger of the fallen.
I am no protector of legacy.
Forsake me.

Yafqahu qauli¹
Choked by the umbilical cord,
I will never free atonement.
Before you left, you left a furnace in me: gasping,
roaring hell – I see it when I sleep, blazing to the
rhythm of shayari.
At least I still can dream in the language of my country.