Here and There



    المساهمات : 496
    تاريخ التسجيل : 14/09/2010

    Here and There

    مُساهمة  Admin في الإثنين أبريل 15, 2013 9:03 pm

    Translated by Abdul Monem Nasser
    Edited by Mark Pirie

    Aotearoa, Aotearoa
    My sweet refuge!
    Your streets are lean like the waists of women
    Flanked by dancing trees
    Your gardens take me to the Hanging Gardens
    Which always lie in my memory

    Your rivers are unlike the Euphrates:
    I see them starting to sweat
    Beside the glamour of the Tigris
    Your mountains bring me to Assyria and to the Four Deities
    They astound me and sneak into my dreams

    Why did you not open your arms with joy
    To the chariots of my ancestors, who taught language to the clay?
    Why did you hide so far away
    When the champion of Uruk went to swim in Bowen Falls?
    There were no snakes to pilfer his eternal glory

    Your solitude smites your beauty
    And my grief pours from lips
    Signalling to the crouching oceans
    Tangaroa, I count my loss till the open-end
    While Tane Mahuta chapters the weeping and chirping

    Your clouds interlace, stealing joyfulness away
    They sip tea and drink with us in cafes
    And angrily protest for nothing;
    The winds batter your bashful coldness
    It is Tawhirimatea, ever intoxicated

    Your Sun with ageless braids
    Leads the morning to seduction
    And your roads lean on passersby
    To beg their worries

    The hills that never take
    Off their robes of green
    Drive my longing for desert sands
    That case the rivers and towns

    Your shores are becoming weary
    From the wailing of waves
    That pound with their primitive progeny
    And their womanly wanderings
    Till they become satiated by the sea

    The sea, with its slander,
    Plays the tune of its scandals
    Unaware of ships of unrest within my head

    Your rains are questions of the Lord with no answers
    Whenever the cold is close to our last breath
    We take refuge in the kisses of our loved ones

    When the hands of the clock sleep
    Homelands procreate beauty
    Overshadowed by Ranginui in his kindness and his moons

    Your cities are replete with women and flowers
    With winds that mar their silence
    And on their sides beaches revolt
    And trees, alarmed and baffled, look at me
    I am overburdened with agonies
    My homeland knocks nightly on my door
    Should I open it?
    I, running away impetuously
    From the narcissism of wars
    I, a firm believer in day break with no grudges,
    As well as that shrivelling tremble before the onset of dusk

      الوقت/التاريخ الآن هو الأحد يناير 20, 2019 11:04 am