I do not want to be a border-guard, said the border-guard.
I don’t want to be a body-guard.
I don’t want to be a guardian-angel.
I don’t want to be a guide.
I want not to be a grinder.
I don’t want to be a garnet.
I don’t want to be a guerdon.
I don’t want to be a gaud.
But my own unwillingness is grinding and grounding me
and I’m standing on guard, my own octagonal garden.
I don’t want to be a watchman, answered the watchman.
I don’t want to be a guardsman.
I don’t want to be a watchguard.
But my own unwillingness is watching over me and hobbling me,
I’m standing alone, wavering in the wind.
I’m the door-keeper, observed the porter.
But nobody asked me
about my will.
Translated by the author and edited by Ashraf Noor