The Heart of Daggers

The heart of daggers in the hands of the homeless,

Your childhood has wallowed among pigs,

When the time was being, you breezed;

Bee, bee, nimble for the ooze of dance and displacement in the head,

Why did not they call you: Your Excellency . . .

Lord Bomb, a bomb in your head!

Without him, without an Arab in desert

We, the stampede of the camels, the stomp of the wildest world before us!

You danced on a body, on a tongue you died . . .

You had been bringing the book, the game is the game of your fingers . . .

A finger hanging over the time, without an Arab in the desert, they cut off your feet,

We with you, we without everyone . . .