1
On that night, pierced by the sound of rain,
Everything is possible...
When one is washed in cognac,
Drenched in sorrow,
Haunted by the unknown...
And when one refuses to remain a stone.
So why—
Do you consult the coffee cups?
Why—
Do you ask the endless questions?
And why—
Did you come to the sea,
If you fear the journey?

2
Between October and October,
Like the warm sugar flowing from the heart of fruit...
Leave your fate to God, and sleep.
For your ******* come into this world by destiny,
And by destiny, they fade away...

3
Love will come in its time...
So wear your Egyptian caftan.
I now recall the cotton fields of the Delta...
Sit wherever you like,
For the piano concerto
Will erase time,
Erase you,
Erase me,
And erase the burdens we have carried since birth.
Love will come in its time...
And passion will come in its time...
For the piano concerto
Washes all things in camphor and oil,
Melts the ice off the faces of lakes,
Summons strange butterflies,
And brings forth fields anew.
So let things be natural... effortless...
For the piano concerto
Finds its own solutions.
Love will come in its time...
And the piano...
Will call us into its watery chamber,
And I do not know what it will say...

4
Everything is possible...
On that night, pierced by the sound of rain.
Tchaikovsky—
Now passes like a bird through Petersburg’s squares,
Slipping like a green dream from Montparnasse,
Drifting through the memory of roses,
Gathering the yellow leaves of Europe's forests,
Praying in Hagia Sophia,
Weeping in the sacred halls of Najaf,
Between mirrors and golden domes...

5
Everything is possible...
On that night, pierced by the sound of rain.
So wear your Kurdish caftan...
I do not know why—
But I recall Mosul in spring,
The water reeds swaying in the marshes,
The orchards of Al-Rasafa,
And the writings God inscribes
In roses and gold,
Upon the palm fronds of Shatt Al-Arab
At sunset...

6
Good morning, jasmine... are you well?
The piano concerto
Lit the fire for us... then vanished.
Now, I recall the orchards of Al-Rasafa,
The shanashil that line the banks of Al-A’zamiyah,
And the writings God inscribes
In roses and gold,
Upon the palm fronds of Shatt Al-Arab
At sunset...

7
Good morning, jasmine... are you well?
The piano concerto
Lit the fire for us... then vanished.