like the poem before writing: “I have no father
my son so five birth to me,” the land says to me
when I pass lightly upon the land, in your shimmering crystal night amid butterflies. No blood on the plows. A virginity renewing itself.
There is no name for what life should be
other than what you’ve made of my soul and what you make…”—The Stranger’s Land/ The Serene Land, Mahmoud Darwish