I only discovered her voice
when she spoke in a language I understood.
But no matter.
We excrete roots converted into language.
(So my name might be
quadrisyllabic in that language,
or it could shine so well
if followed by habibti).
What you say matters little as long you say it
in Italian,
as long you say it
in Icelandic.
The Egyptian woman in front of me writing with her left hand
seems a mirror image.
We sculpt with the ashes of all that one day
burned between tongues of flame.
In any case, all over the world, some of us write toward the margin
and others toward the center.
Because you carry a polka on your lips
it is necessary to learn new dance steps.
But no matter.
All embraces are
translations.
Translation by Lawrence Schimel
EN 
MK