1 March 1967

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    تاريخ التسجيل : 14/09/2010

    1 March 1967

    مُساهمة  Admin في الإثنين أبريل 15, 2013 4:46 pm

    Translated by Muhiddein Assaf
    Edited by Mark Pirie


    What a madness that curtails the poem: I mean you!
    My hands do everything in free will; my eyes are expatiating.
    The defeats that dwell on my lips are glories of war for others.
    I do not approach but my heart dries,
    Theft crashes my memory and its
    Prison cells change me into a ragged shirt.
    Exile flows down my shoulders, and on the windows
    I see questions from those who’ve disappeared.
    My suns break in the basket of pain,
    My neigh dissipates before it can be heard.

    I am Basim Furat … O God!… do you know me?
    Police stations are tattooed on my skin, and my mother
    Does not see the splinters when she combs my youth.
    She dissolves wax and myrtle over my dawning
    With her aba that looks like my days,
    And sweeps away the warplanes, drawing me as she pleases.
    Is this because I carry my nation in my shirt pocket
    And beneath my tongue two rivers are rumbling?

    I run after my death, and my corpse follows me.
    My nation is a long autumn: a flood of nausea.

    Light hides under your hat, and on your chest questions blossom.
    For a rose I sing, besieged by sadness.

    And you are unaware of what it means
    To leave our kisses on marble
    Letting air slip between our knees.
    You take a chance - you take it all.
    My cold hand spans the returning horizon,
    The sea exasperates me: another star falls under the dream.

    1 March 1967: I expropriate my father’s caliphate.
    I strike at his strength,
    And ruins dangle from his mouth.

    1980: I follow my corpse - I am decrepit,
    My route riddled with yearning.
    They leave me between two orphaned mountains and go.
    I glance at their steps - yawning - but they do not notice
    That my shirt is wet with dews and rubs the sleep from its eyes.
    Their screams are preceding them.

    Why is my heart a coat? Between your lips
    Wisdom awakens and delights the moon.
    Why can the larks not imagine the secret of our departure?
    Why should the fields narrow
    And our lives start to cough
    And our mirrors spit on their mirrors?
    Do not bend.
    My hallucination is a window wider than a horizon,
    Higher than the clouds of our pleasures
    And the banners of the defeated.
    Its fragrance creeps over your legs
    And slips between your fingers ... as dynasties ... dynasties.

    The letters are in the house
    But the verse takes its shape.
    Who granted the city this mouth
    To swallow poems and fields?
    And I find not a door for freedom.


      الوقت/التاريخ الآن هو الأربعاء نوفمبر 14, 2018 1:56 am