I roam in the villages
How oak trees have grown there?
How orange trees have grown here?


We are what the sun plants
What the land kneads
What the clouds give away from our luck
We are, we only are the winds seeds
Which are forgotten
By our beaks


We will fix the grandfather’s ancient roof
Follow the road’s dim design
We will remember our dead
In the festival
We will read what they have written
Write some of what we have read
And read what we have written to ourselves
Smoke the miserable philosophy
Repeat the proverb of generosity spirit
Of richness poverty…
Build the temples from the things we fear
Dream exactly as the quilt limits allow us
Collect hope water in the well


If you want
Pet the strangest roses
Wonder in the hills of astonishing
Be a friend with all the elks
And go away
If you wanted to
Go away
Surf waves of any spectrum you like
Since everyone returns to the dust color he came from
As for me
I roam in the villages
Saying to myself
Why there?
Why here?


Poem Rami Zakaria, 2015-2016. Translation from Arabic Shurouk Hammoud, 2017. 

Shake heart column publishes poetry in three languages. Photo by Hanna Hirvonen.