Curl your tongue behind the gums,
exhale a letter under the breath
open your lips just a little wider
to let the feeling escape.
Qalb. (n. - heart, dil for a familiar tongue).
Noun is a feeling too,
floating in the background of names I utter
under the carpet
cleaning the fear and
the dust over the lips.
How do I pronounce a foreign language
with sticks in my hand?
Pain between the lines of my palm
leaves a sharp cry
as tears roll on the paper.
To speak a word you do not feel
you take a pain in a native language
and walk through corridors.
Empty footsteps,
heavy doorknobs.
You clean the tongue
and exhale.
How do I write a foreign language?
A curling alphabet over the paper,
spread its arms
open like the sun
dissect the 'zabaan'
while I stay numb in my dyslexic moment.
Write. Read.
but never understand.
The world behind a language
doesn't get along with the translation
it gets lost in sighs
by writers who read everything
and contemplate a little
belittling the original owner.
Qalb.
A noun.
A feeling that becomes history.
A language that twists my faith
while I lay down my letters
over this skin
with a flexible finger covering my lips.
Q-a-l-b,
I break the words before they can break me.
The heart can never satiate the thirst of a soul.
for cries of the heartbeat
evaporates in the translation.