كناية

A prose poem by: Hikmet Elhadj *

Arundhati Roy,
Jelinek,
Rimbaud,
Fosse.
Beckett, too.
All books tend toward silence in the heat,
and shadows stretch out, waiting for hands
to touch the body, languid from its solitude,
while dust dances with sighs.
And you never come,
nor are you overcome by longing
for my library.