The Howl of the Fox



    المساهمات : 496
    تاريخ التسجيل : 14/09/2010

    The Howl of the Fox

    مُساهمة  Admin في الإثنين أبريل 15, 2013 4:32 pm

    Translated by Yahya Haider
    Edited by Mark Pirie

    My mother is
    Verses of Henna defeated by love.
    She became widowed,
    Her lovers’ longing leaning towards the end of the night.

    Now, agony empties its wailing upon her bosom,
    Her memories run over by wars.
    What can the palm trees say to the minaret
    As the crucified Al-Hussainiyah River passes
    Through the wind of the North’s people?

    A pomegranate branch breaks from untold grief.
    Each night she wipes away the blood and dust
    From the forehead of the Euphratesian
    And cries out:
    “A murder in Al-Tufuf stretched out my weeping
    And abandoned me to eternal grief!”

    She carries books made from saffron
    And hides others made from priceless gems.
    She nears the Prison of Al-Sindi where my father lies -
    My father who fought a hundred wars
    From original sin’s day of birth
    To the rebellion of nuclear tribes against authority.
    She holds for him the sun and the moon
    And eleven wishes to keep his resolution.

    And when my father was killed and his head severed
    The Al-‘Alqamy River wiped its tears and absconded
    With two hands glowing with fertility and regret.
    Now, my mother ascends the hill
    To be a witness to the howl of the fox
    That echoes in the city
    The work of the final murderers.

    And after when they paraded my father’s head in the cities
    My mother, with her spit, ornamented the Calipha’s face
    And drowned the flame of his depraved candles.

    The shattered sea bowed down
    And winds paid their condolences;
    She threw the skeletons of palm trees
    And the marble of domes to the heavens;
    So the planets and stars became.

    The dawn was my father’s blood.
    There were seventy trails in his body
    Each leading to seventy oranges and shrines.
    People were soon his allies
    Once their minds burned
    From the shock of his fate.

    They sent books gilded with adjuration,
    Embellished with prayer
    And bejewelled with wishes
    To crown a messenger devoid of revelations.
    But they knew the taste of their mourning
    And went to the women whose lives were broken.
    They offered them all to the God of waiting
    Burning the candles of their femininity at night
    Hopeful that the Al-‘Alqamy River
    Would again sing to the Al-Hussainiyah River and return
    Supplicating to Al-Hurr
    To give them my father’s handkerchief
    That still clasped his arm
    To stop the bleeding from the Ommawi sword.

    Now, my mother wipes the crystals from her cheeks
    And cries out to me:
    “What do you hold in your right hand? Oh, you poet!
    Release your poems!
    Mesmerise all poets!
    But never bow, except before this Oriental marble!
    Pray only
    To the minarets and pigeons,
    The chants of the angels of peace inscribed on golden domes,
    And for heavenly speech not to rot on your tongue
    Step off the glory of language!”

      الوقت/التاريخ الآن هو الأحد يناير 20, 2019 10:09 am