The Poem “The Catastrophe of Damascus” by Ahmed Shawqi
Below is the text of the poem “The Catastrophe of Damascus”:
First Stanza
Greetings from the gentle breezes of Barada,
And tears that do not cease, oh Damascus.
An apology from the quill and the verses.
The grandeur of the distress is too profound to describe,
And memories of it linger in my heart.
To you, I gaze eternally, my heart flutters,
From the wounds that time has inflicted upon you.
These scars run deep within the heart,
I entered you as the evening embraced the dawn;
Your face gleams with joyous expressions,
And under your gardens, rivers flow.
Your hills are lush with leaves and blossoms,
Around me are young people, pure and bright.
They have aspirations and achievements.
On their tongues, poets weave their verses;
In their midst, eloquent speakers arise—
Strange to me is the poetry that is recited by them.
I have nudged their pride until it blazed,
The nostrils of lions flared as such;
And all free souls roared from their defiance.
May God bless the tales that have reached
The ears of the protector of those in pain.
They unfold to the world like letters,
And they embellish the horizons with dazzlement.
In its more recent events, truth is often mistaken for myth,
And it is said that historical landmarks were shattered,
And it was claimed that it faced destruction and fire.
Second Stanza
Are you not, O Damascus, a nurse for Islam,
A cradle for virtue that cannot be diminished?
The crown of religion has never been enhanced
With anything more magnificent than you;
Every civilization on earth has lineage from your noble essence,
Your skies are adorned with the glories of history,
And your lands are treasures from the past.
You have built the great state and monarchy—
The dust of your civilization cannot be rivaled
By banners and festivities in Syria.
Your news echoes through Andalusia’s paths,
And who could fathom the tragedies that befell it!
Is it true that it has faced demise?
And are the gardens of paradise but mirages?
Or do they possess delights akin to yesterday’s lives?
And where are the remnants of our sanctuaries—
Now in ruins, with curtains torn asunder,
Within the groves, there’s a fire kindled.
And behind the thicket, fledglings are baby birds;
If they seek paths of safety,
They come through the death roads,
Where night brings upon us shells and demise.
In your sky, flashes of destruction loom,
And if steel strikes, the horizon turns red.
Behold those who stare at your anguish;
After weakness, it is none other than a heart—
For those who invade, even if they seem softened,
Their hearts are as hard as stones, unmoved;
With reckless abandon, they throw France
Into war, with fervor and madness.
When the seekers of truth approach
They say: “A band has emerged and scattered!”
The blood of the revolutionaries is known by France,
And it knows that it is the light of truth live within her lands.
Like the source of heavenly rains, life’s essence circulates;
In this land, those who die do so to live.
They stand beside their nation to stay,
And the people have been set free by their spears.
So how can Syria be oppressed again?
Cast away your dreams, embrace reality!
And throw from yourselves the ornate hopes; for politics’ traps
Are delusions masked with princely titles.
How many have fallen prey to cruelty
Like the bent neck of the hanged man on a throne—
And it speaks then makes its move; yet no matters divide us,
But all of us share the same pain.
And if nations differ, we are united
By an eloquence that knows no boundaries.
Third Stanza
You have stood between death and life,
If you seek the comforts of time, strive!
For every homeland, blood of the free flows,
This has been an advancing debt to be paid;
For those who drink from realms of death,
If freedom does not flow, tights do not open.
And kingdoms are not built by the victims,
Nor rights normalized, nor life granted;—
For in the slain lie lives for generations,
And in the captives, their salvation awaits.
For freedom, with its steadfast blood, opens a portal,
Through every hand embossed with sacrifice.
You, O children of Damascus,
And the glory of the East begins with Damascus!
You supported your brother in the day of trial;
And every brother, standing up for another, is right.
What of the Druze before the calamity,
And if they were treated unjustly?
Yet they provided resistance and hospitality,
Like the spring of serenity, they became steadfast;
And they possess a great peak of honor—
A source in the clouds above,
And for every cause, there is a fight,
And every noble deed is met with value.
A Poem about Damascus by Nizar Qabbani
I spread my soft veil over your sacred soil,
So, why, Damascus, should we start with blame?
My beloved, lie down like a song
In my arms, and do not seek the reason.
You are all women; no other woman
Have I loved since you, but deemed her false.
O my Shami, my wounds have no shores,
So wipe the sorrow and weariness from my brow
And take me back to the walls of my school,
And bring back the ink, chalk, and notebooks.
Those alleys—how many treasures did I bury there,
And how many childhood memories did I leave upon?
I painted on their walls pictures of my life—
And how many toys I shattered on their steps!
I came from the womb of sorrow, my country;
I kiss the earth, the doors, and the stars.
My love is here, and my beloved are born here,
So who can return to me the age that has departed?
I am a tribe of lovers in all its entirety,
And with my tears, I watered the sea and the clouds;
Every willow I turned into a woman,
And every minaret I adorned with gold.
The orchards were full among my belongings
When I departed from the fragrant highlands;
No shirt from my collection will I wear
Without finding your grapes on its seams.
Yet my sea-faring journey holds burdens,
And the concerns of the land settle upon it.
And fleeing from love’s judgement does not suffice.
O Shami, where are the eyes of Muawiya?
And where are those who crowded with the hint of overflow!
Neither did the horses of Banu Hamdan dance with glee,
Nor did al-Mutanabbi fill Aleppo’s spaces;
And the grave of Khalid in Homs is touched.
When the grave trembles from its visitors’ wrath—
Or perhaps he lives, the marble coffin is his dwelling!
And perhaps a dead person stands on his feet,
O son of al-Walid, is there not a sword you can lend?
For all our swords have turned to wooden sticks.
Damascus, treasure of my dreams and my breath!
Shall I complain about Arabism, or shall I lament for the Arabs?
The whips of June scarred their backs—and they are addicted and kiss the hand that strikes them!
And when they peruse the writings of history, they are convinced—
When did the guns find a home in books?
They nourished Palestine with colorful dreams,
And fed it silly speeches and proclamations;
And they left Jerusalem exposed in the mud,
That offers her pride to whoever desires.
Is there anything from Palestine written to reassure me
About whom I wrote, though he never wrote back?
And about the lemon orchards, and about a dream
That distances itself from me each time it comes closer;
O Palestine, who offers you a lilac?
And who returns to you the house that has fallen apart?
You wandered on the pavement of tears, searching
For compassion, but found no father.
Look around, you find us in our wanderings—
Those who worship sex, or those who worship gold.
One blinded by wealth bowed and gave all he had to the courtesans,
While one bathing in the seas of oil is dressed in rags.
While one, noble at home, pours out his blood.
If those who slaughtered history are my kin,
In these ages, I reject the lineage!
O Shami, O Shami, I have no ecstasy in my bag—
I seek forgiveness from poetry that begs for euphoria.
What shall I read from my poetry and my literature?
The hoofprints of horses stomped on our writing.
They besieged us and silenced us; thus no pen said
The truth unless it was assassinated or crucified.
Who rebuked a slaughtered man for his blood,
And the wound of his vein, how easy the reproach!
Whoever endured the cautery does not forget his pains,
And he who tasted poison knows it well enough.
Do not question the one who is strangled in turmoil!
Poetry is not doves we release towards the sky,
Nor a flute and the winds of dawn—
Yet it is anger that has sharpened its claws.
How cowardly poetry becomes if it doesn’t embrace anger!