Munaf Al-Sheikh
The Self
How would I set off back home?
Frightened… The sandy shore is eager for my fragile flesh,
And the hope-disarmed soul never defeats foam.
Torn is that which I named a sail;
That when it quailed, the wind did not fail.
Deep loneliness extinguishes the breaths,
Strangulated thoughts suck the fingers' verdure.
The echo of the present is deafening,
And the fangs of yesterday lurk in tomorrow.
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