The Bahraini Child


Like a dove

Which lands on your palms

And drinks from the bowl of your breast and mouth

Thus my heart.


Over its fingers, your breast closes a warm flower

And it returns as a child

Saying to his toy:

God will punish you.


Back to front he wears his clothes

And falls asleep on himself.


Like two sparrows

Squabbling over a wheat kernel fallen from his hand.


Like two larks

Which peek out from her shirt…

He feared his lanterns would be seen

By those standing

He said, ‘I don’t have’ – pointing to his pocket – ‘my language here.’


He started running, the path slipped from under him

From his hand, the sea poured

His knees dropped onto a star

And nearby, a rose cried.


She arose and lifted his face

And her laugh broke off inside him

He pulled out the thorn

And shyly he licked God’s nectar


One child she will find

Stealing the almonds from her hair

And hiding them in his eloquence


Another left the field drawn on the wall

Without turning off the river

And the charcoal’s remorse drowned him


He said to nobody

Their flowers were thirsty…

But nobody was setting the roads aflame with his steps



When he stumbled over the dream and the path

He started kicking their ribs

The house, the roads and his neighbour’s trees followed his steps


Like two sycamores

Like doves

Landing on a wire of his ideas

God poured from his chest

His knees dropped onto a star

And nearby, Manama cried.