Cities Mark Us With Tattoos



    المساهمات : 496
    تاريخ التسجيل : 14/09/2010

    Cities Mark Us With Tattoos

    مُساهمة  Admin في الإثنين أبريل 15, 2013 9:10 pm

    Translated by Abdul Monem Nasser
    Edited by Mark Pirie

    They are cities,
    they go by us, and we go by them;
    they mark us with tattoos;
    tattoos blessed by Shinto gods.

    through which we crazily rove.
    on them we suspend our memories,
    abundant with adventures for the foolhardy,
    who shroud the nights with their days.

    of wilderness and amazement,
    whose motives and gestures
    tell of the beauty of rain.

    that wash their bashful scandals with love,
    and scatter them over the cheeks of their mountains.

    whose nudity
    bathes in the songs of sparrows;
    winds entrapping their slumber;
    markets flirting with markets;
    relating the wistful samurai;
    their heroism
    locked in museums,
    bowing in alleyways.

    that I trade for solitude;
    whenever I reach for it
    fields of sadness open up for me;
    fields inside which rivers are sunk,
    stained with penitence.

    that share with me their gentle mornings;
    allowing me to surrender to a childhood I have kept hidden
    since the sages threw their wisdom in the paths of deceit
    and the poets betrayed their crosses
    and dug out graves for their glories,
    deeper than an abyss.

    at night they get enthused with me.
    (I wish I filled my head with oblivion,
    and shared my self with the illusion)

    pointing to a youthful girl,
    dancing with abandon.
    Her grandma
    is the only survivor in the family;
    on the morning of August 6th 1945.

    whose castles are adorned with the majesty of knights,
    holding banners of splendour,
    with suns
    that lull the flights of vultures,
    that have eliminated darkness off the skies,
    and given habitat to clouds in the halls of the palace.
    For the stars
    wanted to see their images
    in the bewilderment of the rivers,
    among the plaits of its trees,
    and the wisdom of Buddha.
    From his gaze
    I brush the music of the seasons,
    and the lyrics of the flowers.
    Deep into his mind I look,
    opening wide the gates of contemplation
    to reveal the depth of his purity.
    Archipelago after archipelago.

    like stations, grabbing me,
    that I should disembark
    in every station.
    I touch the sea, bowing before a car park
    in respect to the magnificence of places
    that arrest me,
    and I murmur: It is man’s intelligence with need;
    It is man’s intelligence with need;
    It is man’s intelligence…

    And while I go on,
    contemplating temples, palaces and castles,
    whispers an elderly lady next to me, mocking her eighty years slipping by:
    ‘They were all fodder for a war of foolish rogues.’
    What could her eighty years be telling me?
    What is it?
    We breathed life into it.
    What is it?

    whose innocent plumes are washed by rivers,
    out of their depths
    a torrent of moans flow through,
    and safeguarding the morning,
    they hide it inside bowels of pain...

    Hiroshima, August 2006

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