Classic Poem

Now,
At the third hour of the twentieth century
Where nothing separates the corpses of the dead
Form the shoes of the pedestrians
Except the asphalt
I shall recline in the middle of the street like a bedouin shaikh
And will not rise
Until all prison bars in the world
And all files of suspects
Are gathered and placed in front of me
That I can masticate them like a camel in the open road
Till all truncheons of police and demonstrators
Escape their hands
And once again become blossoming branches
In their forests.
I laugh in the dark
I cry in the dark
I write in the dark
Until I can no more distinguish my pen from my finger
Whenever there is a knock at the door
Whenever a curtain twitches
I cover up my papers with my hand
Like a prostitute caught out in a raid

Who gave me this terror for an inheritance?
This blood fearful as a mountain panther?
Whenever I see an official paper on the doormat
Or a helmet through the crack of the door,
My bones rattle, my tears race one another
And my terrified blood scatters in all directions
As if the eternal police squads of the ruling class
Chase it from vein to vein.

Ah, my love,
In vain I regain my courage and strength
The tragedy is not here
In the whip, the office, the warning siren,
It is there
In the cradle … in the womb
For I was not tied to the womb by the umbilical cord
But by the noose.