Night and wine and woman

By: Moaen shalabia

My wooden home
has two windows opened to their limits
and shadow of a woman inflaming the distance
I look upon the sea on the wake of the evening
and upon a glass of wine
stirring the echoes

My wooden home has the smell of dew
and the shape of a soul in the palm of a blur
in our wooden home there is an aged jar
and a thirsty butterfly haunting me
into the futility of speech

It is you
and for a while I've been looking in you for my death
here you are, and this taste is monstrous
exploding in me a volcano
and inflaming in me my sails

Here you are
and in your eyes a storm of drunkenness
oh you hug and burn and fill and spill me
wine over my crematorium
so don't ever change and be oh a woman
destroying all my kingdom
and embrace me as a bottle
that danced on the belt of a storm
thus the flame of its wine burns me into poetry
for an ultimate heat and a Palestinian glass
cover all my questions