Open your arms
O city of partisans.
Welcome him with thorns
or with stones.
Bind his arms above his head,
stretch them into an archway to the grave,
tattoo upon his head
graven images, brand him with glowing coals
and let the flames consume Mihyar.

More than an olive tree, more
than a river, more than
a breeze
bounding and rebounding,
more than an island
more than a forest,
a cloud
that skims across his leisurely path:
all and more
in their solitude
are reading his book.