One Thousand and One Nights

The world constantly spins,
the clock hands constantly sleep,
the world constantly sleeps,
the clock hands constantly spin,
I constantly tell tales,
my death constantly postponed by a night.

I have become the moon after its fourteenth night,
like Baghdad which used to be beautiful.
Come,
come and take me wandering through the city’s mirrors;
I swear to God
I am not Shahrzad.

How many times must I inscribe this
pounding it against the calcified chest of history?

They have spotted your half-face in the gleaming of daggers.

Although one thousand and one nights have passed
it’s only warm blood
trickling.