“Cold oceans,
The hall of slave-sellers,
The streets, the seas, the sailors,
All were inside your boxes,
The old radios.

The nights of my childhood,
The summers when the water lily reached out its hand
To catch the moth’s voice,
And the aged sky rained its scales upon my path,
The nights when the nightingales’ waves making my sleep turbulent-
There was nothing in my bed but your voice .

You were the temple of the pleasant dead,
An endless abyss, teeming with ethereal, bustling resonance.

Oceans
Approached your fluorite buttons, your bright, fiery acrylic glow,
And your silk ribbons-
And returned,
Without wetting a finger.

Your silence was eerie and cold,
The lights gone,
Returning to their phantom homes,
While only music swirled around our mouths-
Music, following us from room to room like a white horse,
And children riding away on golden mares,
Far from here, where music alone remained-
Notes saturated with the scent of grass.

They were all there-
Behind the indigo silk, in parallel wavelengths,
Where the old women washed their clothes
And the sound, with no intention of drying them,
And metal roosters stood in the wheat fields,
Acting as sacred cows in temple squares
And the water was so pristine and clear,
That time stared at its reflection for hours, blessing itself.

The moon, a metallic bird, rose above the roof of the hungriest, crying,
And we shared
Whatever we had left in our palms,
Showing the moon- strangely metallic and silver-
To the homeless children.

And all of this was in your heart,
Cooper radios, old radios!
And all of this was in you, dream-making factory!
Endless coastal strip!
Where dead fish, under your shinning sun, still pray for eternity.

What happened that you left me,
And transistors, optical fibers, data
Arrived on a jet full of satellites,
Carving a path from our home to hell.

Old radios!
Come and take me back to that same darkness,
Come and take me back,
Where there is no light-
Where we all stand amazed together, joyful for no reason.”

“Fire rages on all sides,
And houses and stars tremble
In your presence, oh reed-
Born of our sighs,
Of wounds, tattered flags, unheard hymns.

You step into the world of men through an enchanted lip,
For you, too, were plucked from the blackened swamps,
From the army of fractured dreams,
From the nest of one
Who had forgotten the name of the path
And wandered into an endless alley.

Oh reed, silent flower!
Upon your skin, the marks of the gods’ unknown whips,
Your mouth sealed
Before you were severed from the earth.

Oh, you are food for the wind, your word, the wind,
Your throne, forever to roam!
Take my hand,
And rise a little higher-
Here, where my blood stands
and waits for Rumi to untie your knots,
So you may speak from a place
Where human-fairies perform ablutions in its soil,
Silent flower,
Your tongue was cut.
Now, you shall speak.”