Reaction Poem
My homeland! The iron of my chains teaches me
The violence of eagles and the tenderness of the hopeful
I never knew that beneath our skins
Lies the birth of a storm… and a wedding of brooks
They have blocked the light from me in this cell
Yet in my heart, the sun of torches ignited
They wrote upon the wall.. a meadow of ears of grain
They sketched on the wall the faces of my killers
And shadows of braids erased their features
I etched your blood-stained image with my teeth
And composed a song of departed torment
I buried my defeat in the flesh of darkness
And engraved my fingertips in the hair of suns
As the conquerors on the rooftops of my homes
Opened only promises of earthquakes!
They will only see the brilliance of my forehead
They will hear only the clatter of my chains
If I were to burn upon the cross of my worship
I would become a saint clad in warrior’s garb!
Homeland Poem
Hang me from the braids of a palm tree
And strangle me.. for I will not betray the palm tree!
This land is mine.. and I once
Grazed the camels, content and enamored
My homeland is not a bundle of tales
It is neither a memory nor a field of harvest
It is not a light upon the whispers of folly
My homeland is the wrath of the stranger at sorrow
A child yearning for a holiday and a kiss
And winds confined within the walls of a prison
An elderly man weeping for his sons.. and his field
This land is flesh and bone
And my heart..
Flies above its grasses like a date palm
Hang me from the braids of a palm tree
And strangle me, for I will not betray the palm tree!
Forehead and Anger
My homeland! Oh eagle that sheaths the beak of fire
In my eyes
Where is the history of the Arabs?
All that I possess in the face of death:
A forehead and anger.
I have willed that my heart be a tree
And my forehead a home for the lark.
And homeland, we were born and grew amidst your wounds
And we fed on the oak trees…
To witness the birth of your dawn
O eagle shackled without cause
O mythic death that once loved
Your red beak remains in my eyes
A sword of flame…
And I am unworthy of your wing
All that I possess in the presence of death:
A forehead… and anger!
The Old Wound
Standing beneath the windows,
On the street I stand
The forgotten stairs do not know my footsteps
And neither does the window recognize
The palm’s hand, I catch its clouds
When it falls, a fly in my throat
And upon the ruins of my humanity
The sun and the feet of storms pass
Standing under the ancient windows
From my hand my fluttering flower and garden
Ask me: how much time has passed until we meet
All this color and death, encountered in a moment?
As I traverse a corridor of forgetfulness,
And the pepper, and the sound of bronze
From my hand my fluttering escapes ..
And in my eyes silence replaces the truth!
When the wind explodes in my passion
And the sun ceases to cook drowsiness
And I call everything by its name,
Then I shall buy a new key and window
With the hymns of enthusiasm!
_O heart that is deprived of the daylight sun
And of flowers and celebrations, enough!
They taught us to preserve love with hate!
And to cover the dew of the rose with dust!
_O voice that fluttered within my flesh
Flames of birds,
They taught us to sing and to love
All that the field may yield from grass,
From ants, and what summer leaves behind on the ruins of a house.
They taught us to sing and hide
Our wild love, lest
The serenade of love becomes tiresome!
When the wind explodes against my skin
I shall name everything by its name
And beat the sadness and night with my chains
O my ancient windows…
Return in a Shroud
They tell stories in our land
They narrate with melancholy
About my friend who passed away
And returned in a shroud
His name was…
Do not remember his name!
Keep him in our hearts..
Do not let the word
Fade into the air, like ashes…
Keep him, a bleeding wound.. that knows no bandage
The path to him…
I fear, oh my beloved.. I fear, oh orphans…
I fear we will forget him among the hustle of names
I fear he may dissolve in winter’s storms!
I fear our wounds may sleep in our hearts..
I fear they may sleep!
The lifetime… a lifetime of a bud that does not remember the rain..
Never wept under the moonlight’s balcony
Did not halt the hours with wakefulness…
And his hands did not falter against the wall…
And he did not travel beyond a thread of desire… his eyes!
And he did not kiss a beauty…
He knew nothing of love
Except for the songs of a singer whose hopes dissipated
And never said: to the beautiful God!
Except twice
She did not glance at him… only gave him a sidelong glance
He was a young lad…
He vanished from her path
And did not think much about love…
They tell stories in our land
They narrate with melancholy
About my friend who passed away
And returned in a shroud
He did not say, when his footsteps echoed behind the door
To his mother: farewell!
He did not say to his beloved.. to his friends:
We’ll meet tomorrow!
Nor did he leave a letter… as is customary for travelers
Saying: I will return.. and silence the suspicions
Nor did he write a word…
To illuminate the night for his mother who..
Speaks to the sky and things,
She says: O pillow of the bed!
O suitcase of clothes!
O night! O stars! O God! O clouds!:
Did you not see a lost one… his eyes two stars?
His hands branches of basil
And his chest a cushion of stars and the moon
And his hair a swing for the wind and flowers!
Did you not see the lost one
A traveler who knows not how to travel!
He departed without provisions, who will feed the lad
If he hungers in his journey?
Who will pity the stranger?
My heart is troubled for him amidst the hazards of the roads!
My heart is for you, oh lad.. oh my child!
Tell her, O night! O stars!
O paths! O clouds!
Tell her: you shall not carry the answer
For the wound lies above tears.. above sorrow and torment!
You will not carry.. you will not endure much longer
Because..
Because he died, and yet remained young!
O mother!
Do not uproot the tears from their roots!
For tears have roots, my mother,
They speak to the evening every day…
They say: O caravan of the evening!
Where do you pass through?
The paths to death have closed.. when the travelers blocked them
The paths of sorrow have closed.. if you linger for moments
For moments!
To wipe the forehead and the eyes
And carry from our tears a memory
For those who passed before us.. our beloved emigrants
O mother!
Do not uproot the tears from their roots
Leave in the well of the heart two tears!
For tomorrow may see the death of his father.. or brother
Or his friend, me
Leave for the dead tomorrow two tears… two tears!
They tell stories in our land about my friend a great deal
Fires of bullets in his cheeks
And his chest.. and his face..
Do not explain the matters!
I saw his wound
I gazed into its dimensions many times…
My heart is for our children
And for every mother holding the bed!
O friends of the distant departed
Do not ask: when will he return
Do not ask too much
Rather ask: when will men awaken
Birds Die in Galilee
We will meet shortly
After a year
After two years
And a generation…
And I cast into the camera
Twenty gardens
And the birds of Galilee
And they went searching behind the sea,
For a new meaning of truth
_My homeland is a clothesline
For the handkerchiefs of spilled blood
At every minute, it stretched over the beach
Sand.. and palms.
She does not know
Oh Rita! I have bequeathed to you and death
The secret of the withering joy at the customs gate
And we rejuvenated, I and death,
In your first forehead
And in the window of your home
And I and death are two faces
Why do you flee now from my face
Why do you flee?
And why do you flee now, exactly
That makes the wheat the eyelashes of the land, which
Makes the volcano another face of jasmine?
And why do you flee?
It was only her silence that tired me at night
When it stretched in front of the door
Like the street.. like the old neighborhood
Let it be whatever you want, oh Rita
Let silence be an axe
Or a frame of stars
Or a climate for the birth of the tree…
I sip the kiss
From the edge of knives,
Come, let’s belong to the massacre!…
Fell like excess paper
Flocks of birds
Into the wells of time…
And I retrieve the blue wings
Oh Rita,
I am the witness of the grave that grows
Oh Rita
I am the one who carves the shackles
Into my skin
A form of the homeland…