The world may be in the eyes
of the flattened bug on the windshield.
I am thirstier than a wandering tourist
in the kingdom of Bahrain.
Nevertheless, there’s god’s cocacola there
in the hands of the king’s friends putting an end to the protest.
I hurl everything into the backpack and go my way.
The world is right there, across
I truly believe that water
is a mirror you lose through your fingers
and there is as much thirst
as a tight crowd at noon
on the outskirts of Tripoli
about to burn an edition of a thousand copies
of the eternal Colonel’s Green Book.
However, I wait for god's tea
served by the intellectuals in the Colonel’s payroll looking
at how planes prevent other planes from flying
I keep everything in the backpack and go my way.
the world is right there, across the windshield.
I stop for some gas.
Stretch my legs a little bit.
A sip of bottled water and suddenly
this yearning to light a cigarette.
This yearning to light a cigarette
while filling the tank.
This is a slightly altered version (by me) of a translation published along with the poem in Spanish by the author. | Esta traducción es una versión levemente alterada que hice de la traducción original de Rafah en Facebook.