The Woman of the Unseen

Certainly. Here is the same translated poem written as a single, cohesive paragraph, fully adhering to English grammar, punctuation, and literary structure, while preserving the poetic essence and soul of the original:

The poem walks through the air—it never touches the ground and never admits to being written. It erupts from an unnamed void and leans, like fractured light, against the side of an unfinished sentence. It breathes through the whiteness of the page as if it were her own skin, and when she smiles, meaning itself begins to tremble. She has no name; every letter that came before was a failed attempt to touch her breath, and every language that came after was a cold consolation for a text that never kissed her. She vanishes when she speaks and appears only in silence. No one can possess her, for she was never written to be possessed but to be lived—like an unseen mystery too shy to reveal itself. The poem does not say anything; it builds within you something you did not know you had lost, then slips away slowly, like an old perfume resting in memory. As if you had not read it at all, but simply realized you had been reading yourself within her. The poem is not an idea, not a woman, not a cloud; she is the shiver of language seeing itself as a woman for the very first time, placing her hands on your body from within, then leaving her trace on your voice.

~Firas Alwaily