The word for
love, habib, is written from right
to left, starting where we would end it
and ending where we might begin.
Where we would
end a war
another might take as a beginning,
or as an echo of history, recited again.
Speak the word
for death, maut,
and you will hear the cursives of the wind
driven into the veil of the unknown.
This is a
language made of blood.
It is made of sand, and time.
To be spoken, it must be earned.