To language of light I lead the candles



    المساهمات : 496
    تاريخ التسجيل : 14/09/2010

    To language of light I lead the candles

    مُساهمة  Admin في الإثنين أبريل 15, 2013 8:03 pm

    Translated by Abbas El Sheikh
    Edited by Mark Pirie

    What dream that dries my childhood
    What dream that cracks my mornings
    I am the last in the caravan of solitude
    My whinnying is leaning on a desert
    Flooded with mourning
    And jogging under rains and the splinters of bombs
    How can I let my forgetfulness
    Disperse its memories in the direction of pain
    And not cry: Oh homeland, bring me back
    My innocence
    So it can be stripped of everything
    But the Black garment!

    I am touching my blood
    Lonely in the parade’s square
    My echo is shooting the wind
    And destroying my papers
    Now there are no shadows for my solitude to be upright

    How can I wet my forgetfulness
    With the dawn of amulets
    And the Arabian jasmine’s stream of pain?

    The beginning was two firebrands
    Hastening the horizon
    And whinnying at the door
    Without answers
    The beginning was to trim my sadness
    Sagging under the weight of my dream
    And now I am counting the fires of my life
    My fires protrude in my memory
    I have the language of shooting stars
    And the lust of Archipelagos which the
    Poems are unable to endure
    There is no guide for my compass
    Except sadness
    And the dawn is packaged in testimony
    To my past

    I lament you, O defiance!, because your wings
    Are two nooses for daylight
    While the sea lets the sunset escape to identityless shore;
    The dusk is the geography of our blood -
    Myself and Baghdad …
    We sit on a shore we know
    Sipping our destruction
    O Baghdad …
    Night is drying your darkness
    By my light!

    Peace resides on the farewell handkerchiefs which
    Are dried by the rain of waiting
    Peace dwells in the gowns of tears which are
    Our history without a doubt
    I alone fill the rivers with songs
    And memories
    And strip the waves from their hallucinations
    I am proud of my destruction
    And with my destruction I scrape the rust
    From the clouds
    Like I scrape from my childhood the
    Warplanes and trenches
    I have the times of myrtle and Narcissus,
    And while they are drowning
    I write to myself:
    My mistakes
    Are a coffin
    Chasing me, uttering a language
    That was lost by its own alphabet
    Until it became homeless,
    Like nations decayed from divulgence
    In the cage of wishes

    My mistakes:
    I am my mistakes,
    The mistakes of my father:
    A mistake that is repeated,
    My mother is a mistake awaiting a mistake
    Due to a mistake,
    I am a mistake counting my steps and
    Make a mistake

    How can I let my forgetfulness splinter?
    The datepalms are brimming and moaning
    I am the Sumerian
    Who is heavily armed
    With dreams and questions
    I tentatively
    Shake nostalgia from my fingers
    I freeze inside my life
    I shake trying in vain to remove fear from
    My pillow

    I caress the sweetness of the forests
    And cover the shyness of the sea
    Before the flighty waves
    I lead the candles to light
    And mend their patience
    Not caring for eternity
    Without caring for their fading too
    I snatch the horizons and leave

    I am the paradise of myself and its doomsday
    I point to basil slowly
    And gradually the fields flow on my bed
    The shores sprinkle their wailing near me
    While tears flow through windows of waiting

    My longing sneaks away discreetly
    I feel it
    I plough in daytime
    And it ploughs me at night
    My yearning drags the river to its desert
    And its thirst to sky
    And it wails before the oneness of
    Its innocence
    My longing is praying in the hearth of its quarrels
    Carrying the firebrand in its agony

    Now, which alley will open its shirt for a stranger?
    I suspend my defeats on the walls
    And make nostalgia my pillow

    I am but the last in the caravan of solitude
    And because there are no glories to gild my life
    My dreams have left me and gone
    I leave my sighs on the windows
    And at the doors I leave my defeats

      الوقت/التاريخ الآن هو الأحد يناير 20, 2019 10:13 am