At the hour of death if there were a catalog of spite I would become a grape and crush myself. Have them etch into the stone a snake's eye hanging from a grapevine, and soft footsteps of the reed smoldering like Rumi's Masnavi, for the Bedouin who quarrels and scolds. His mother called him the golden-haired gun, and he told her: all the words circle one word that we are unable to say. Have them draw a metal fence around the stone and inside the fence place a piece of barbwire, a compass, and a broken bowl.
Translated by Kaveh Bassiri