I copy texts from the excess of clouds
I am not a poet
all prophecies have concluded
I returned alone in a crippled ascension

I am my poem, and outside I gape at my image
I am my image and outside a poem writes me
at a café near the sea

I am my mirror . . . and inside there is an image
that echoes my voice and copies my poem

I am my shadow, and he who walks beyond the light
is a devil in my image, sipping the spirits out of my coffee
in order to stop me from writing

I am the writer of the will, the owner of the corpse
the letters that adorn the gravestone
draw my name
but why do I see in the grave a silence that does not resemble me
(A silence) reading al-Fatiha?