Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish passed away on August 9th. In his verse, the stark reality of exile became a transforming metaphor, scored by the ghosts of history. What follows is an excerpt from The Rhythm's Passion, translated from the Arabic by Omnia Amin and Rick London.

He is quiet and so am I.

He sips tea with lemon, while I drink coffee.

That's the difference between us.

Like me, he wears a wide, striped shirt,

and like him, I read the evening paper.

He doesn't see my secret glance.

I don't see his secret glance.

He's quiet and so am I.

He asks the waiter something.

I ask the waiter something…

A black cat walks between us.

I feel the midnight of its fur

and he feels the midnight of its fur…

I don't say to him: The sky today

is clear and blue.

He doesn't say to me: The sky today is clear.

He's watched and the one watching

and I'm watched and the one watching.

I move my left foot.

He moves his right foot.

I hum the melody of a song

and he hums the melody of a similar song.

I wonder: Is he the mirror in which I see myself?

And turn to look in his eyes... but I don't see him.

I hurry from the café.

I think: Maybe he's a killer…

or maybe a passerby who thinks

I am a killer.

He's afraid... and so am I.