You can identify the one who broke apart, the one whose spine they managed to straighten, whose neck they stuck back on his shoulders. From where you stand, drinking coffeee and watching the passersby, you imagine the line of the vein they threaded from his wrist to his heart, you catch the glint of imported surgical pins in his knees. You see how carefully he takes his steps, walking slowly, usually in a straight path. He’ll never turn for you to see his eyes. This one is sealed tight. It will be easier with one who scattered. The one who scattered often turns around, as though looking for a part he’s still missing. When he turns around, he sometimes looks sweet, because they’ve patched him together with gum, or else somewhat bitter, from all the glue stuck between his limbs. I don’t think you can make out, from the window, the ones who are torn to pieces. There’s really nothing to distinguish them! Or else, each one looks just like himself—like canceled stamps unfixed from their envelopes that ended up in some philatelist’s album.

(translated from the Arabic by Robyn Creswell)