Bells on our eyelashes
and the death throes of words,
and I among fields of speech,
a knight on a horse made of dirt.
My lungs are my poetry, my eyes a book,
and I, under the skin of words,
on the beaming banks of foam,
a poet who sang and died
leaving this singed elegy
before the faces of poets,
for birds at the edge of sky.
— Adonis, “Song” from “Elegy for the First Century.” Translated By Khaled Mattawa. Selected Poems (Yale University Press, 2010)a