Guardian of the submissive

Alone, as always, I am not one to choose. My departure haunts me, and the moons of copper hang over the gates of Damascus. Damascus is an abyss of waiting, and the crystal walls...
I forgot the scent of her women and their urine, finally, from her last collapses, crouching before her gates like a savage jackal, now overcome with longing for the world of wolves. Now Damascus tears me in two:
You are the son of the echo.
My mother's treacherous voice reaches me from the farthest reaches, a distance open to the possibilities of a miracle that evaporated from beneath my mother's naked garments under the moonlight. For the king, they hunt the fish and scatter them among flocks of passing birds, so they fall into the embrace of the fields scattered across the east. Wild pigeons, partridges without beaks, without eyes, with wings only. The king's men, from the government of empty bullets, from my mother's path and my umbilical cord, continue hunting, smoking, blaspheming, and ejaculating into the river's waters.
My mother's voice, like the mixed sounds of the doors of Damascus that never opened for me, calls to me:
I waited seven centuries. I do not enter through closed doors alone, and I am always alone. Departure breaks me, and the moons of night cast their coppery glow from the gates of Damascus. Damascus, the abyss of anticipation and crystal walls...

Near the scent of its women and the urine of its men, near its final destruction, rivers flow before its gates like a forsaken jackal, surrendering to the longing of the wolves' howls. Now, Damascus tears me apart: "You are the son of an echo." My mother's deceptive voice reaches me from the farthest distance, a distance open to the possibilities of miracles that evaporated beneath my mother's naked robe under the moonlight. The king's men fish and scatter their bullets among flocks of passing birds, which fall into the arms of the peasant women scattered in the fields: wild pigeons, partridges without beaks, without eyes, possessing only dark wings. The king's men search for empty bullets, they search for my mother's trail and my umbilical cord. They continue hunting, smoking, cursing, and throwing things into the river. My mother's voice, mingled with the creaking of Damascus's gates that never opened for me, calls out: "Wait seven centuries."