Rimbaud’s Beach is only a mile from the “Elephant Trunk”
where dolphins leap up laughing and Russian women twirl,
where Goldmore Road stretches, and beer like water flows,
where sailors drown among the nymphs.

I was there secretly, observing a blind lighthouse,
watched how the seaweed swayed with the waves.
Aden held a star on her forehead, strove to lift
a bolder off of the oppressed Arabs’ chests.

Is Rimbaud’s Beach still there stretched long
and shimmering in the red setting sun,
like a lighthouse flaunting its light, free, unmatched?
Are there any women swimming in the tranquil sea?

Aden is now gone, and we are finished too.
Let’s ask: What were we then, and who?

(Translated from the Arabic by Khaled Mattawa)