Do Not Abandon Me
As poet Mahmoud Darwish expresses:
My homeland is your brow, so listen to me, do not leave me behind your fence like a wild herb, like a forsaken yurt. Do not forsake me, a wretched moon, a star begging among the branches. Do not let me feel the weight of my sorrow, engrossed in love, while the sun pours over the windows of my prison. And get accustomed to burning me if you have passion for my stones and olives. My weeping … in my soil! My homeland is your brow, so listen to me, do not abandon me.
The Song of Rain
As poet Badr Shakir al-Sayyab beautifully articulates:
Your eyes are like palm groves at dawn or two balconies from which the moon recedes. When your eyes smile, the vines bloom and the lights dance like moons in the river, the oars gently moving, as if the stars pulsate in their depths. It is the song of rain, rain… rain… A yawning evening and the clouds stubbornly shed their tears. It is as if the arches of clouds drink the rain, drop by drop dissolving in the downpour. They drown in a fog from your thin lips. The sea breezes through the evening… bringing winter’s warmth and autumn’s delightful chill as the rain falls. Rain… rain… rain. Do you know what sorrow the rain brings and how the lonely feels lost in it? Like a child whose mother awoke from a year-long slumber… but he could not find her. And when the inquiry wore on, they told him: she will return the day after tomorrow… she must return. Thus, a wave of tears awakens in my spirit and a wild shiver embraces the sky, akin to a child’s fear of the moon. Rain… rain… rain. Your eyes hover with the rain, sweeping across the waves of the Gulf, washing the shores with stars and shipwrecks as if heralding the dawn. I cry out to the Gulf, O Gulf, and the echo returns as if it were sobbing. I cry out to the Gulf, O giver of pearls and shellfish and the treasures of the depths, and I hear the echo from the tumult of the sea, as the Gulf showers us with its bounties in every drop of rain. Each drop brings a smile, waiting for a new dawn or a nipple blooming on a baby’s lips. In every drop of rain, in the world of tomorrow, life’s bestower, the rain falls.
I Am the Train of Sorrow
Poet Nizar Qabbani states:
I board thousands of trains and ride the waves of grief, carrying just one suitcase filled with the addresses of my beloveds, who were once my sweethearts. My train speeds onward, devouring the spaces, consuming the fields in its wake, tearing the trees on its path, sensing the feet of lakes. The train inspector inquires about my ticket and my next destination. Is there a stop ahead? Hotels of the world do not know me, nor do the addresses of my sweethearts, and there is no platform to alight upon in my travels. All my platforms have fled from me.
The Eyelids of Maidens
- Poet Antara ibn Shaddad states:
The eyelids of maidens, veiled with veils, are sharper than the fine white blades. When stripped bare, they humble the brave, and their eyes become raw from the flood of tears. May God quench my uncle’s thirst with a dose from the hands of death, paralyzing him after the severing of fingers. Just as one like me was led, in vain, to ruin, tying my hopes to the skirt of greed. On that day, I was bid farewell by Abla with certainty that I would not return. She lamented, asking, how will you fare after us if you are lost in the vast wilderness? And I swear, I have not tried to find solace in this life, nor have my ambitions diverted me from your love. So be assured of my sincere affection, and live blissfully in nonchalance. I told her, O Abla, I am a traveler, even if barriers of distance are placed before me. We were created for this love long before our days, and denial has no entrance into my ears. O candle of happiness, will I return, and do I see in your land the flowers of memories? My eyes behold the hills and the stones, the inhabitants of that bough between the pastures. We are gathered in the lands of dinner and retreat, grazing in the company of those meadows. O gentle breezes, for the sake of God, inform Abla of my journey in what location. And O lightning, deliver her my greetings this morning, and the places I inhabit in my homeland and as I lay down. O songbirds, should I die, for you to mourn upon my soil amidst the mournful birds. And weep for anyone who died unjustly without receiving anything but distance from their loved ones and their tragedies. O steed, weep for a knight who stood against the onslaught of fate. He has now vanished into a romance of sorrow and a heavy chain from the shackles of destiny. I do not weep if my fate comes to me, but in truth, I yearn and tears flow. I do not boast of my sorrowfulness and strength, and my fame has spread through all places. By the right of love, do not accuse me, and let the blame cease, for blame is of no use. How can I endure patience for the one I love when the fire of passion has been kindled in my veins?
The Martyr
Writes poet Abdullah al-Bardouni:
Like the return of light to the blind eyes, suddenly, like the greenness of a gentle coffin. As life extends its hands to a drowning person on the brink of death. And like the gentle return of an old man to the vigor of youthful springs. Suddenly, I returned, a solitary return to my longing father. She labored through the path back to her ultimate return and endured the hardships of noble struggle. She gazed, who do you see and whom do you call? Where do you flee in this fearful emptiness? She showed her inner terror through a face harsh as the bars of a thick prison. With a barked voice that bore faces and chins, and as the donkey sniffed the silence. Doubts agitated within her, listening to the fading chaos after the violent din. Glimmers of moments strolled forth, revealing something akin to the flickering of a weak lamp that breathes life into the despondent. On his face lay the apology of disappointment, and she sensed there a weakened life writhing beneath the thin winter. Villages, hung on her age, are embroiled in petty grievances and trivialities. Openings leaned toward the wind, inquiring about the aroma of bread. She drew closer to life to look upon them, remnants of slight dross and the vines stood there bearing the corpses of the slain. They froze around her remnants of the bleed, while the persisting sweat of summer and the shivering of autumn presented her. I asked her about her name and from the grooves of her being, the tenderness emerged, and she turned to tell that her father is from Zubayd, and her mother from Thaqif. Thus, she returned spring to life, showcasing youth, both ancient and novel. She landed as a guest of compassion, becoming the kindest hostess towards the lands of desolation. She arrived in a procession of dawns and hordes of green verdure. Framed by the wait for the return of birds, and the eagerness of the blind dawn. She floated across the ridges, where summer’s warmth ignites the veins of snow. She developed her existence from the void, and her mountains rose proud. Upon her return, the yellowing coffins nestled back into the lush green of youth.
Let Us Weep for the Remembrance of a Beloved
As expressed by Imru’ al-Qais:
Let us weep for the remembrance of a beloved and a recognition, and a silhouette whose signs have faded for ages. Arguments arrived after me, appearing as a line written in the scriptures of monks. I remembered the entire tribe, and thus stirred the remnants of illness from a conscience full of anguish. My tears spilled upon the garment as if it were all from Shuaib, flowing torrents. If a person does not hoard his tongue against himself, then nothing else matters. If you see me at Jaber’s in distress, a situation devoid of retreat, my hands are uplifted. How many a wretched soul have I followed, breaking the chains of destiny for him? For the youth of truth brought forth a kind of magic, they all stood, each of them, amidst noise and drunkenness. And a broken string cut the trailing heart amidst the traces of tears shed from the foot of the journey. Downpours like spectral colors fell around. Every stray thing encountered tender murmurs. At a shrine, before asking, the gifts await. But I will not submit to any other place of cameos. As if branches sprouting from the tall palm trees hung with gold. How shall I hold hearts unswayed? Defeat does not sway the paths lumined by desires. The steeds clamor over the great refuge till they can bear no more movement in the chaos of despair. Until one sees the pulsating horizon covered in birds and eagles.
O Companions of My Journey, Do Not Speak Indulgently
As Abu al-Ata’ah dictates:
O companions of my journey, do not be indulgent in the slander of the servant of God, avoid the reprimand. Glorified is the One who has given Ibn Ma’an what I see as nothing but a deficiency in intellect. Ibn Ma’an said, unveiling himself: Who is there to judge, O my family? I am a youth from the clan, among the honored and noble. Among the Banū Shaybān, in this household of wisdom, I am but a solitary maiden. Would that I had glimpsed a guide to lead me today to a stallion. Alas, in my woeful longing for a handsome youth who affixes the earring to my ankle. I once welcomed him privately, and he said, ‘Leave my hand and take my leg.’ The sister of Banu Shayban passed by us, elegant in her dress upon a mule, known as Abu al-Fadl. O, whom one sees is accompanied by a maiden known as Abu al-Fadl. She has a mark on her face, a precaution against the eye by the kohl. If you visit her, the doorkeepers will say, ‘We are engaged with visitors.’ Our mistress has been busy there, with a husband, and no permission for the husband. O daughter of Ma’an of goodness, do not ignore now, where is the effort against ignorance? Will you chastise people, while you yourself are a person who is chastised from behind and before? It is not fitting to trace back to generous individuals on their parsimony, when one has to offer what the generous possess. This indeed, after all, is the peak of generosity. I do not utter this of you unless my ink has run dry.