I hate trespassers,
those with small foot but big footprints.
They peek as if they will just pass
but then, their foul wind stays behind.
They have a gait of the sun,
they possess the name made by tears
so no rain can wash them away.
I hate trespassers with hair like the night,
each strand is an alarming stroke of pain.
Their skin glows like an Arabian mat holding gold,
when they speak, their words become stars
and knit itself to your mind.
they can enroll your heart to dance to their rhythm,
as you flutter with smile in their rainless clouds.
Oh how I don’t like the way your eyesight finds me.
I hate trespassers who know time,
they are subtle with when the anchor drops on my shore
picking up dates in a tray the color of their taste.
They come pretending to be palm trees with sweet wine
telling me to stretch forth my morning gourd.
Liars! Lions with wings of owls.
Why don’t you continue your malicious journey,
read the signals and keep off the path without the grass.
Take your withering wind
and dry your aching-wet lands.
Let not your haste itch in this room.
I will not be your tree, I will not shade a ghost.
Don’t come to this house, this body and claim love.
I will prefer alone without this ache.
Not when I get use to you do you decide to leave