Visiting the Deceased – By Poet Salah Abdel Sabour
We visited our deceased on the holiday and recited the opening verses of the Quran. We offered our heartfelt memories, laying them gently in the embrace of the countryside cemetery. We sat down, sharing bread and sorrows, tears and sighs flowed freely as we greeted one another. We made a pact, alongside our departed, to meet again in the next festive season.
O our deceased, your shades reached us across the expansive fields of wheat nestled between the hills of the village where the dead rest. The lowly house at the base of the granaries was whispered to by the night breezes, imparting to you magical feathers. We awaited your return with eager anticipation, calmed by the assurance that, as voices fade and the oil lamp’s shadow freezes on the walls, we would feel the warmth of your breath around the hearth. We would hear the crackling sounds that resembled angels’ footsteps, asking, “Have you come to keep us company? Will we share a part of our resting place with you? Shall we warm you against the chill of the night?”
In your essence, we find comfort from the fear of solitude until dawn approaches and the rooster crows over the rooftops of the town. With a voice trembling in gratitude, we would say to you, “Come back, O our deceased, we will manage to find moments in the winding paths of time to meet you, moments that may not fulfill the hungry or quench the thirsty, but will provide us with bites of memory until we see you again in the quietness of the night.”
Days have passed, years have come and gone, O our deceased. O harsh and unyielding sun of the present, you failed to mature our dreams with your flame; instead, we became mere burnt logs, until tears forsook the parched cheeks of paper and the hidden sorrow within our eyes dried up as well. Forgive us, O our deceased, for we now can only meet on the holiday. You may not have realized, we have become logs laid upon the stone of the street, and though love still thirsts, you seem distant. We may reminisce about you throughout the year as we recall a dream that never settled in our eyes. But the clamor of this unforgiving existence does not allow us to even recite the opening verses of the Quran or imprint your faces within ourselves and conceal your features beneath our eyelids.
O our departed, do remember us when the heart yearns during times of scarcity of provisions. Do not forget us until we meet again.
Greater Freedom – By Poet Qassim Haddad
In an atmosphere of freedom, I established my relationship with words. In the inkwell of your delightful torment, I dipped my pens to write. I was the first to read my own wounds, when suddenly they took me from your embrace, stripped me of my pens and papers, and distanced me from my books and the warmth that enriches my words with beauty.
I found my fingers exploring the darkness of my cell, tracing paths that glimmered, leading me to the word, and I no longer needed pens or papers. The hearts of my companions became notebooks that read and embraced me. With even greater freedom, I began to form relationships with the horizon. Whether at sea, in the desert, within the stony forest, or in a stupor, poetry remained my companion. A poet requires nothing but a yearning heart for the verses to flow. I need nothing but you, my burning desire, which shines through my words.
Now in Exile – By Poet Mahmoud Darwish
They placed chains upon his mouth and bound his hands to the stone of the dead, proclaiming, “You are a killer.” They seized his food, clothes, and banners, tossing him into the tomb-like cell and declaring, “You are a refugee.”
O you with bloodied eyes and hands, the night shall pass. No holding cell shall remain, and the chains of captivity will dissolve. Nero has died; Rome has not succumbed. Her eyes are fierce and defiant; she fights back. Barley grains dry up, yet they will fill the valley with harvests to come.
Now in Exile – By Poet Mahmoud Darwish
Now, in exile, yes, in my home, at the age of sixty in a fleeting life, they kindle candles for your pleasure. Celebrate as quietly as you can, for a careless death has lost its way to you amidst the crowd and delayed you.
A curious moon looms over the ruins, laughing foolishly. Do not believe it is approaching to welcome you; it remains in its old role, like the rejuvenating March, restoring names of longing to the trees.
Celebrate with your friends, as the glass shatters. In these sixties, you will not find a lasting tomorrow to carry on your shoulders, nor a song to bear you.
Speak to life as befits an experienced poet: “Move slowly, like confident women enchanted by their power, each hiding a call of what is concealed: ‘Here I am, how lovely you are.’ Move slowly, O life, so that I may see you completing the imperfections surrounding me. How I have forgotten you in the whirlwind as I searched for you and for myself. And every time I realized a secret from you, I harshly uttered, ‘How ignorant I am of you.’ Speak to absence: I have come to complete you.”