For Two Weeks I have been in this Palace. Nothing has Happened

Baghdad’s arches and the arches of the Tigris—
The story left unfinished
may turn into a poem and a poem
finished           can make a story. That’s why poets
always break the lines of their poems. And I want
from among those pointless walks around Baghdad
to break the line on a house in the bazaar
carpeted with many marbled stones in The Thousand and one Nights, where the ceilings
are painted turquoise and gold.
“Ten dinars a month for rent!”
“Are you kidding?”
“I’m not kidding,” the doorkeeper said, “but whoever enters the house
gets sick and within two weeks dies.”
For two weeks
I’ve been in this palace and nothing has happened.
I’ve only seen sunsets of gold:
you can hear them!
“Hey, boy, you haven’t seen the palace belvedere?” the doorkeeper’s wife said.
But what is on the roof
other than Baghdad’s arches and the arches of the Tigris—

یکی دو هفته می‌شود که توی این قصرم و هیچ اتفاق نیافتاده

یکی دو هفته می‌شود که توی این قصرم و هیچ اتفاق نیافتاده