A poet sits in a coffee shop, writing.
The old lady
thinks he is writing a letter to his mother,
the young woman
thinks he is writing a letter to his girlfriend,
thinks he is drawing,
thinks he is considering a deal,
thinks he is writing a postcard,
thinks he is calculating his debts.
The secret policeman
walks, slowly, towards him.
(Translated by Radwa Ashur)
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