I ascend toward the madness of trees
A madman’s smile turns to trees
and all its leaves fall down
to the forehead of the earth,
I yellow among them.
The loneliness of the tree is innocent and untouched
It comes near to my bruised darkness,
whose winter rime, after the fall
of forty snows, rhymes with nothing
When I ascend into the madness of the tree
I bathe in my exhaustion
I bath in wisdom to my teeth
I wash my face and get ready for prayer
Prayer climbs up from the weight
Of my impatience lips,
to the madness of the tree.
It stays there.
I was told that the mother of the tree
Was a child, a daughter of innocence, a dove,
a dove brooding where it is always rainy,
where it is always white,
so that her prayers are the prayers of a dove.
When I am filled with the dove’s madness
—at the turn of the millennium here in Herat—
the tree becomes a girl, solid and tangible,
a girl who drinks fire, and the taste
of whose strands, a talisman, is of ashes.
I lean to the wall—the wall here in my room—
its tongue cracks ,
words become soggy and tired
the wind opens its lips
the tree climbs up to the madness
of my body and I smile.
My eyes smiling springs.