Poem: O Eid, in What State Do You Return?
The poet Al-Mutanabbi states:
In what form do you return, O Eid,
With what has passed, or with something renewed in you?
As for the beloved ones, the wilderness lies before them,
I wish there was a path to you, beyond it a hand’s reach.
If it were not for high aspirations, I would not travel through
The intricacies of language, nor the coarse entanglements.
Surely it was sweeter than my sword’s embrace,
The beauty of maidens of rare elegance.
Time has left nothing in my heart or in my liver,
For a glance loves, nor does a beauty adorn.
O my cupbearers, is there wine in your glasses,
Or in your cups a memory of anguish and sleeplessness?
Am I a stone? Why does this wine not move me,
Nor do these melodies stir my spirit?
Whenever I long for the pure-red wine,
I find it and my beloved soul is lost.
What have I faced in life? What a wonder it is,
That I am envied for my tears.
I have become the hope of the wealthy,
I am affluent, while my riches are promises.
I have settled among the deceitful who have guests,
While hospitality and travel are limited.
The generosity of men lies in their hands,
And their speech, they were neither generous nor good.
No soul among them is claimed by death,
Unless he holds a part of his decay.
Every loosened bond from the womb is uncounted,
Neither in the journeys nor the women counted.
Every time an evil servant slays his master,
Or betrays him, he lays the groundwork in Cairo.
The eunuch has become the leader of the runaway,
While the free are enslaved and the servant worshiped.
The guardians of Cairo sleep of its cunning,
As it has perfumed but the clusters will not fade.
The servant has no brother from a free man,
Even if he was born in the garments of the nobility.
Do not purchase a servant unless with a stick,
For surely the slaves are filthy and vile.
I never thought I would live to see a time,
Where a dog would insult me and yet be praised.
I never imagined that people had disappeared,
And that a person like my white father exists.
And that this black one, with a broken sword,
Would be obeyed by those with loud voices.
Hungry, he feeds on my provisions while holding me,
So that it may be said that a noble one is intended.
Indeed, if a woman is pregnant and manages him,
She is considered unfortunate, with tears overflowing.
And the same is with the accepted one,
With respect to the way the mare is created.
And there is a delightful flavor of death for the drinker,
For surely, death in humiliation is a terrible thing.
Who taught the black, castrated one of honor,
Was it his white family, or were his forefathers hunters?
Or was his ear torn by the slave dealer,
Or perhaps his fate, found in worthless coins?
Woe to the lowly, they satisfy themselves with excuses,
In every despise, and part of the excuse is refuted.
And this is because the belligerent white ones are incapable,
Of doing good, so how can the black ones?
Poem: Fade Away, O Crescent Moon
The poet Abdul Rahman Al-Ashmawy mentions:
Fade away, O crescent moon,
I fear for you from the oppression of men.
Stay behind the clouds,
Do not spread your light upon the necks of the hills.
Fade away, O crescent moon,
I fear that when you catch sight of us— insanity may strike you.
I, O crescent moon,
I am an Arab girl who left her noble family.
I have a story,
A bloody tale of painful events.
I, O crescent moon,
I am a victim of occupation;
I was born with defeat in my mouth.
I once saw near our home a troop,
On that day, darkness loomed,
Surrounding our beloved village.
On that day soldiers led my father away,
And in his eyes were rivers of captivity.
Those dust-laden wolves
Gathered in search of prey.
I saw a soldier cornering my mother,
With a distrustful glance.
I still hear, O crescent moon,
My mother’s voice pleading for our dignity.
I still see the blade of her noble dagger,
Guarding the great honor.
Poor mother! She died,
Without knowing the death of dignity.
I wonder, O crescent moon,
Why does the radio sway from joy,
And the cup springs to life,
As joyful music stirs?
And singers echo in our ears,
The melodies of happiness,
And television broadcasts a congratulatory image,
“Happy Eid, O children!”
While the child in Lebanon is unaware of his origin,
And the buds of Al-Aqsa are hungry and naked,
And the refugees wrestle with the epidemics.
Fade away, O crescent moon,
They said: It will bring us the happy Eid.
Happy Eid?
The earth remains drenched with the martyr’s blood.
Happy Eid in the palaces of the rich?
Our paths have aged, O crescent moon,
And the extent of happiness is still distant from us.
Fade away, O crescent moon,
Do not bring the happy Eid with the moans.
I do not want the holiday cut off from life.
Do you think the feast lies in sweets
And new garments?
Do you think that Eid is greetings
Written in a newspaper?
Fade away, O crescent moon,
Come to us when time smiles,
And the fires of conflict dissolve.
Come to us when the evening blooms with our smiles,
And the snow of winter melts on our streets.
Come to us with fragrance,
With pride and clear victory.
Come to us when unity is restored
Among the Muslims.
This is the true happy Eid,
And anything else is not Eid for us.
Fade away, O crescent moon,
Until we see our nation’s banners waving high,
Then there will be a celebratory Eid,
And that is where the unhappy smiles with the happy.
Poem: When the Eid Grieves
The poet Abdul Rahman Al-Ashmawy reflects:
O Eid, you have arrived, yet sorrow lingers,
And within my heart, a volcano erupts.
O Eid, you’ve come, but the heat scorches me,
As my eyes are weary from the road’s dust.
The land of our sorrow welcomes you, O Eid;
This land rolls like waves, while warmth is a barren landscape.
O Eid, you’ve come, yet darkness unveils
Itself and the heart of the moon is confused.
O Eid, I sing the tune upon my lips,
Softly, as family and friends feel envious.
I extend my greetings to all and let them know,
That I am happy, though my heart betrays my joy.
I send forth a green smile as a reminder,
To uplift their spirits and charm their hearts.
They said, while addressing me,
“This is the one who brings humanity’s attention.”
This is the one whose sighs arise from his blood,
A poem that invites joy with its rhythm and tune.
No, I will not reproach them; they gaze upon me,
While in my heart lies sorrow contained.
O Eid, you’ve come, but sadness is sleeping
On my bed, while longing remains awake.
How can we rejoice, O Eid of wounds, when
Our hearts bear diverse shades of grief?
How can we rejoice when events are turbulent,
And dolls gaze from the damaged lenses?
How can we rejoice, when Al-Aqsa’s mosque lies shattered,
With its glory shattered, and the heart of Jerusalem forlorn?
How can we rejoice, O Eid of wounds, when
Paths lie behind walls and dunes.
How can the splendid nation sleep,
On the bed of deceit while night is intoxicated?
How can we—when humiliation builds a thousand resorts
In the land of our honor, and the winds suffer defeat?
Where are the beloved ones? Neither clouds nor rain,
No garden, shade, or branches visible.
Where are the beloved ones? No sweet whispers,
Charmed by memories, nor basil nor wild thyme.
Where are the beloved ones? No moon shines down upon us,
Nor stars adorn the dark night.
Where are the beloved? No seas nor tides
Are visible, nor ships sailing on waters.
Where are the beloved? As the question returns,
To my chest, arrows piercing deeper within.
Where are the beloved? As the question returns,
To my chest, arrows piercing deeper within.
Melancholic Excerpts About Eid
- The poet Abu Firas Al-Hamdani laments:
O Eid, you return without a beloved,
Upon the weary heart besieged.
O Eid, you’ve come to the eyes that are,
Veiled from all beauty that you possess.
O the desolation of the home whose lord,
Has become enveloped in grief’s attire.
Indeed, Eid has appeared before its people,
With nothing beautiful or sweet to share.
What is there for me and fate, and its events,
But it has cast its strange wonders upon me!
- The poet Hafez Ibrahim writes:
There is Eid here and there stands the funeral,
A king one weeps, and a follower sings.
How strange to witness the blood flowing here,
Blood of joy, while there is the blood of the slain.