Infinitely South

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    تاريخ التسجيل : 14/09/2010

    Infinitely South

    مُساهمة  Admin في الإثنين أبريل 15, 2013 6:03 pm

    Translated by Abbas El Sheikh
    Edited by Mark Pirie



    And I say: In the far away
    There is something calling for remembrance
    In cities exhausted by the sea
    I dump my dreams
    I have souvenirs from wars
    And from cities: wounds
    I have the tears of reeds,
    The sighs of date palms,
    The revelation of oranges
    The blood of myrtle
    There …
    On the map of my childhood
    I leave my innocence pierced
    By the rot of the military
    Whose barracks stole me from home
    And threw me into exile

    God and I are alone
    There is an eternity seeking shelter in me
    And forgetfulness abandons me
    Leaving the smell of bombardment
    In the corridors of my life
    And in the far away I say:
    War takes me by surprise and sweeps away my happiness
    All I catch is a mirage
    Without a passport
    The Euphrates ignites its waves for me
    All things point to you
    But nothing reminds me of you
    The heavens bend for you to cross
    A thread of butterflies waits at your door
    The singing of birds reaches you
    And a transparent coo touches the paper
    And in the whiteness of it all there’s a long revelation
    And I say: in the south there is a south

    The woman of forty ignores that
    For my father was the most cheerful of all the murdered
    His bravery left us with hunger and the gloating of others
    And through thirty lunar years my mother waited
    Until she herself became waiting …
    Now my childhood darkened by poverty and orphanage
    Is poking its tongue and scoffing at me
    And my life is darkened by war and exile
    Wherever I lie, I find the Euphrates lying beside me
    Extending its dreams to me
    Dreams crammed with bombs and sirens
    I wake up and roam the streets
    Weakened by memories
    I exchange the splinters of bombs with roses and poems
    The aggression of bombardment
    With Mulla Othman Al Mousilly’s lute
    And the Maqams of Al Gubbanchi

    For the sea is made wet by the songs of sailors
    Tears resting on its shores
    How it keeps lovers and children amused,
    Shells falling asleep on the eyelids of waves
    And rocks reclining on its lap
    Counting the wishes falling from those passing

    War also has its anthems
    Those that drenched the bosoms of mothers
    With wailing and anxiety
    Its windows wide-open for waiting
    With no-one approaching
    Its doors eroded by sadness
    And its doorsteps crumbling
    With dreams dragged along the streets
    O streets, when will I see …
    The death procession of my grief? -
    Those pale streetlights exhausted by the frost …

    And for the war …
    Bombs whose heads rest on
    The pillows of our bodies
    And sleep inside us
    The murdered - and in their pockets
    Sparrows quarrel with the morning
    And play with an orphan star forgotten by the night
    Letters flow with the dawn

    And I say:
    O gasp of the south
    O son of the sun
    And the rivers whose mouths spit catastrophe
    Just as prophets and holy books emanate from you
    Wars always fail you
    And you find yourself outside the borders of home
    And once you think of home
    You are swallowed by exile
    You blow your years and ashes is what you find
    And scared that your dignity might be buried
    Every night you have a party
    For the Tigris in the farthest south
    There’s no south behind me so I can say:
    Here’s my homeland
    Nor is there south in front of me to cut through
    I am the absolute south
    Equipped with a long history of war and tragedy

    Glories polluted by the whips of the Governor
    And the General’s medals of ‘honour’
    Strip me naked in the forbidden land
    My night is filled with the details of barracks
    The nightly password
    The officer on duty
    And the death squads

    All the women I’ve known
    And all Women
    Whose lust I shall poison
    With my foolishness
    Have smelt the neigh of hurdles in my breath
    And my hallucinations
    Have provoked their womanliness
    In the night’s darkness

    And I say:
    O gasp of the two rivers
    To shake hands with my alienation
    Shall I set my roots on fire
    And cast my thirty years out to sea
    To make a feast for the fish?
    Must I remove my shirt
    Which is filled with bombs,
    Insults and sanctions
    To be embraced by
    A sky that doesn’t belong to me?

    And I say:
    O gasp of the two rivers
    In the far away
    There is something calling for remembrance
    In the distant cities exhausted by the sea
    I dump my dreams
    I have souvenirs from wars
    And from cities: wounds

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