The dahuk calls no more.
These days,
there is no room for birds
among the marshlands.
Even the sky shelters
a kite of gunpowder without a string—
not clouds,
only drifting smoke.
Where lies its destination?
Where?
It finds no refuge in water,
nor a foothold upon the earth.
The clouds have turned away.
No image remains
in eyes that seek their roots.
Through the wind,
searching for a map,
emptiness spreads its wings.
The keepers of the dahuk
have long departed.
Now,
the shepherds do nothing
but sleep.
Houses stand vacant of memory;
a solitary Sindbad wanders on.
Everywhere,
the boundless life
of roaming clouds.
