Water binds me to your name.
Nothing is left of me except you.
Nothing is left of you except me -
a stranger caressing the thighs of a stranger.
O stranger, what will we do with what's left
of the stillness and the brief sleep between two myths?
Nothing carries us: neither path nor home.
Was this the same path from the beginning?
Mahmud Darwish, "Who am I, without Exile?", Unfortunately it was Paradise: Selected Poems, Munir Akash et al. (trad.), Frienses Corporation (Printer), s.d.