The Poem of the Moon Tree
On the peak of the northern mountains, adorned with pine trees,
It is ensconced in a velvety horizon, embraced by a fragrant atmosphere.
Butterflies alight upon its heights to spend the evening,
And at its springs, the stars of the sky take a refreshing bath.
There lived a boy, far within an imaginative realm,
Whenever hunger struck, he feasted on the light of stars and the hues of mountains.
He drank in the scent of pine and the freshness of jasmine,
Filling his thoughts with the perfume of the enthusiastic lily.
This boy was a strange visionary, enshrouded in mysterious memories,
Chasing the fragrance of meadows and the echoes of songs.
The essence of his dreams was to catch the moon,
And place it in a cage made of dew, fragrance, and flowers.
He spent his evenings weaving nets and dreaming,
Resting on cool grass near a murmuring spring.
He stayed awake, gazing at the valley of dusk and the face of the moon,
Reflected in the fragrant waters of a quiet stream.
He would not close his eyes unless the delightful light
Gently brushed his lips, pouring a faint intoxication akin to wine.
He would drink from the spring only if
The crescent moon showered him with the drapes of fragrant bliss.
One summer eve, this boy stealthily crept out,
Light of step, barefoot, with a thirst for adventure.
He walked slowly to a towering summit,
Hiding his form within the shade of a lofty tree.
Counting seconds with a heart that beats unceasingly,
And eagerly awaiting the sweet moonrise as the night waned,
At that moment, the east lifted its dark veil,
Revealing a luminous brow and an inspiring beauty.
The moon was near, yet our hunter did not see it,
So it glided, traversing the velvety evening, in a dreamlike state.
The mountain lover surrounded him, brushing his brow,
And kissed his melting lashes with fragrance and tenderness.
He returned with the seas of light, a cup of softness,
From those lips that occupied every ancient vision.
He concealed the moon in his hut, a sight that no one could appreciate,
Was it a dream? How could it be, for he had captured the moon?
He laid it upon a throne of ethereal beauty,
And crowned it with songs, with his eyes, with lilies.
In the mountain village, during the nighttime gatherings,
Came the calls echoing, “Where is the moon?!”
“Where are its velvety rays in our meadow?”
“Where are its wispy veils in our field?”
And the mountain maidens united in their cry: “We want the moon!”
And the towering peaks echoed back: “We want the moon!”
“Our golden companion, the pourer of our floral echoes,”
“The one sprinkling the perfume of the ears of grain and the roses in our hair,”
“The one who kisses every wound and nourishes the lips of blossoms,”
“And brings the longing of butterflies to the fountain of cool water,”
“Illuminating the path to every far-off dream,”
“And encouraging the twisting of our braids, adorning them with fresh beauty,”
“How will our lashes cool if we lose the moon?”
“And who will soften our melodies? Who will sustain our gatherings?”
The refrain of the shepherds reverberated in the overwhelming solitude,
Causing the vines and valleys to echo back the song.
They rushed forth to where that boy dwelled,
Knocking on the door in a frenzy, in searing passion.
They went mad, and not a stone remained upon another,
Nor a rock that they did not call out: “We want the moon!”
The echo fluttered its wings around the mountains and soared,
To the spheres of the stars and where the day slumbers.
He drank from its fire every cup for the flower of jasmine,
Awakening every strange scent and dew drop,
Gathering from the ecstasies of nature a voice of protest,
Resounding at the boy’s homestead behind the enclosure.
He disturbed the silence and cried: “Why did you steal the moon?”
So the evening went wild, calling: “And where have you hidden the moon?”
Inside the hut, the boy embraced the smiling captive,
Showering it with tears, crying: “They will not take you!”
And the shepherds’ clamor tore through the quiet,
Causing his spirit to tumble into a whirlwind of pain and madness.
He began to sing to his beloved in waves of excitement,
Mixing tears and salt in his melody for beauty.
But the voice of the crowd grew louder, maddening and furious,
Turning the boy’s dreams against the sharp edge of reality.
It descended upon him like heavy metal,
Demolishing the castles his imagination had erected.
Where could he flee? Where could he hide this brow?
And protect it from the swell of longing in the eyes of the hunters?
What could he wrap his rays in, O sky,
When its brilliance defies concealment with its pride?
As minutes passed in turmoil, the boy’s heart,
Was torn by the dagger of doubt in a haze of darkness.
He fetched an axe and began to cleave the earth in frustration,
Seeking to bury this lovely captive—yet where to escape?
He bid farewell to it suffocatingly, washing its color,
With his tears, pouring upon its fate a thousand curses.
When the relentless shepherds broke the wall,
And shattered the cabin door in weary awe,
Their tide rushed in, fueled by violent outrage,
What did they see? What deep despair and shock!
Nothing remained in the hut but silence and darkness,
And as for the boy? He had fallen into a profound dream.
His golden locks cascading over his shoulders,
And a fleeting smile lingered, dreaming upon his lips.
His face, as if Apollo had sipped from it, glowing radiant,
And the peaceful slumber that holds the essence of purity.
The shepherds were bewildered—had this innocent stolen the moon?
Had they made an error in judgment, one wonders? And where is the moon?
They returned, bewildered, to their huts, questioning the darkness,
About the genius moon, whether it ventured beyond the clouds?
Did the foxes snatch it away, hiding it behind the mist?
Or did the sea swallow its tender crescent,
Hiding it within a castle of pure white pearls?
Or did the winds leave nothing of its wandering but scraps,
Concealing it in a cave, to fashion slippers from its soft skin?
And ribbons from its luminous rays for its lily-like form.
As morning arrived, laboring under the cool lunar glow,
Adorning its dusky brow with a necklace of roses,
It traveled the skies, its hands holding a vessel of beauty,
Sprinkling dew, coolness, and light over the mountains.
It passed by the boy’s hut,
Showering him with radiance, droplets of dew, and tranquility.
And it continued its journey to fulfill its endeavors upon the slopes,
Distributing its hues, spreading happiness and clarity.
The boy awakened from sleep, refreshed with joy,
What did he see? O dew! O fragrance! O visions! O sky!
There, in the grassy square where the dawn awaits,
He had grown accustomed to seeing only weeds swayed by the breeze.
There stood and spread out in the air, the jujube tree,
Its tendrils clothed in lush green hues.
The evening nurtured it and fed its fragrance from the moon’s lips,
And nourished it with the light of the earth’s fragrant soil.
And the fruits? What strange hues and innovations!
The light of the stars puzzled and the day vanished,
The trees danced with exuberant madness,
For centuries, they remained the same.
From what ideal land had they suckled? What soil,
Did it water them with silver beauty? What sweet springs?
And what miracle had not reached this tree’s imagination?
For from every fresh branch, a moon hung down.
Many eras passed, and the villagers no longer recalled
The life of the imaginative boy, the genius of madness.
Even the mountains lost their secrets, forgetting his footsteps,
And his moons, songs, and the fervor of his desires.
How had he restored the moon to the villagers, the enamored,
And released it back into the sky as it once was, without a home,
Wandering through the heavens, scattering dew and coolness,
Like a mist that fell from distant evenings,
And whispers, like echoes of a spring flowing deep in a cave,
Confirming that the boy and his tale was a summer dream.
Poem in the Northern Mountains
Take us back, O Train,
For the darkness is dreadful here, and silence weighs heavily.
Take us back, the horizon is vast, and the road is long,
And the nights are short.
Take us back, for the winds wail behind the shadows,
And the howl of wolves echoes beyond the mountains,
Like screams of sorrow in the hearts of humans.
Take us back, for on the slope,
A gloomy, melancholic phantom awaits,
Its footsteps leaving traces on every dawn,
Each dawn spent here with grief and longing.
The phantom of deadly estrangement
In the sorrowful northern mountains.
The phantom of deadly solitude
In the sorrowful north.
Take us back; we are weary of wandering
On the slopes of the mountains and are now afraid
Of the long nights away,
And the howling of wolves
Will drown our voices, making the return painful.
Take us back to the south,
For there, beyond the mountains, lie hearts,
Take us back to those we left behind in the fog,
Every hand waves eagerly in yearning and despair.
Every hand is a heart,
Take us back, O Train; we are weary of wandering and have drifted too far.
And there is a deep whisper,
A thread behind every path
In the gorges of the enormous mountains.
And behind the clouds,
In the shiver of the pines, in the pale village,
In the howl of the jackal, and in the fading stars,
In those pastures, there, a wandering voice,
A whisper of our return.
For there are other homes,
And other pastures,
And other hearts
And there are eyes that refuse to sleep
And hands that embrace the dusk in passion,
And lips that echo our names in the dark,
And hearts that listen for our footsteps in the rush,
And the stars call out,
In sorrow and silence:
“When, O stars will the fleeing ones remember us?”
“When will they return?”
In a moment, we will return,
The dark will not see us here. We will return,
We will return, we will traverse the mountains,
And the towering hills,
We will not be seen again by the northern nights,
Not here again,
The vast space will not feel
The fire of our sighs in the dreadful evening,
In the stillness of that dreadful evening.
Take us back, O Train of the North,
For there, beyond the mountains,
Are the delicate faces hidden by the nights.
Take us back; return to the loving arms
In the shade of the palms,
Where our past days await,
In a long, fragile longing.
They stood in waiting,
Anticipating the train’s return,
To walk with the wanderers,
Where our days are asking the passersby,
One by one, in yearning,
“When will the fleeing ones return?”
Let’s return, for there is an old song,
A whisper surrounding us, beckoning for return.
How I wish to return
After this painful wandering
In the barren valleys,
Where the wolves howl,
Let’s return, for the dusk is cold as ice,
And there, behind the distant expanse,
Are warm arms.
Let’s return, for the mountains bare their dark night,
And there, beyond the cryptic dusk,
Are the voices of our beloved, in the deep shadows,
Beating with profound longing,
Their voices weighed down by words of reproach,
Their voices echoed in the valleys,
Their voices are still in the stillness of the air,
Circling like time,
Let’s return before the serpent
Carves a long, long separation,
From the palms’ shadows,
From our loved ones behind the silence of the wilderness.
Take us back, O Train,
For the nights are short,
And our beloved are waiting in sorrow and anticipation.
Excerpt from the Poem of Childhood Memories
I still place myself on the sandy hill,
Listening to the songs of yesterday,
Oh, I am still a child, yet I have
Grown more ignorant of my age and self;
I wish I were still as I was, with a heart
That knows nothing but light and purity.
Each day I build my life anew,
Yet I forget when evening comes.
In the shade of palms, I construct castles,
And lofty palaces from the sand.
Alas, O Life, where have my sands gone,
And my castles? How did my shadows dissipate?
Oh, sandy hill, what do you see?
What have you revealed to me from the city of dreams?
Where are the towering turrets? Have they
Hidden behind time in illusions?
Gone are the days—I am no longer a child,
Nor do I wake each morning in a bird’s nest.
Life no longer appears as it used to,
A nectar dissolving in my goblets.
In winter, I no longer yearn for the dawn,
That flew from my lovely small cradle.
I no longer sigh for the dove when it sings
And play along the shores of the brook.
How many flowers have I gathered? How many fragrances
Were stolen by life that left nothing for me?
How many dreams have I woven, only to scatter them?
And only memories remain in my hands.
Birdsong echoed my songs,
And bliss always followed my shadow.
This existence was my magnificent domain—
I wish it could return to me.
Oh, let the sands recall the echo and the beauty,
The sweetness of youth and innocence lost.
I can no longer judge the flowers,
Or guide the stars through every night.
Am I now but a poet, grasping the secret
Of the barren, tedious universe?
Yesterday, childhood bids farewell, and I have replaced
My tender sensibility with the merriment of yesterday.
Everything in existence pains me now,
And this life wounds my being.
The truth has unveiled itself: a phantom
Chasing me in my eyes, a madness.
And the dream of childhood has faded into the
Past, leaving only longing.
Where are the colors of the flowers? Now I no longer
See in blossoms anything but barrenness.
Every time I see flowers, I remember the blossom gatherer.
Where are the birds’ melodies? My heart no longer
Yearns, full of pain.
Delicious song lost its echoes,
Fading in memory of the fisherman.
Where is the murmuring breeze? Its longing whispers
Have dimmed, failing to excite my imagination.
Tomorrow, the shadows will draw lines of melancholy on the
Landscape, sadness sketching its lines.
Such is the course of life—it seizes what it gives,
Stubbornly withholding what is offered.
Song of the Homeland
Hang me from the braids of its palm tree!
And hang me! I will never betray the palm tree!
This land is mine… Once, long ago,
I milked the female camels with delight and admiration!
My homeland is not a collection of tales,
It is neither a memory, nor a story, nor a song,
It is not a light upon the very old tales of jasmine!
My homeland is the rage of the stranger against sorrow,
A child craving a festive day and the dream of happiness!
This land feels like sinew and bone,
And my heart…
Flies across its grasses like a bee!
Hang me from the palm tree’s braided hair!
And hang me! I will never betray the palm tree!