by Nizar Sartawi
How did you droop
like a captain horrified by a storm
when in your horizons
flocks of white clouds passed
tickling the eyelids of the sun,
and close to your vacant eyes
ecstatic daffodil tresses
went swaying in rapture
at the edges of the stream
sipping wine from the golden horizon
and pouring drunken ghosts
in the mirror of the staggering water?
How did you slacken
like the leaves of autumnal age
when at the brightening of the moment
a choir of children
were born
who rose from the sleeves of flowers
like night lovers
and their legs, tattooed with henna,
slim like desert antelopes,
went running after the shadows of the clouds
to catch the rainbow arc
lying between the threads of the sun
and learn magic from him?
How did you disappear
like a terrified squirrel
when from the lobes of clouds
came into sight
from whom sighs resounded
revealing the passions of the gypsy body
running away from the passageways of tramping,
veiled, out of fear,
with the fog of dawn
wet with rain drops,
drowned in the pains of memory?
How did you miss the light dwelling in your niche,
the fresh joy in your times,
the promising hope in your mirror,
love flowing on your papers,
the wide-open door before you
and the spray of April's gentle breeze
embracing your dreams,
scattering flowers in your pathways?
How did your colors spill,
your melodies regress,
and your beaches depart?
Woe to you!
You've wasted the years of life like scattered dust
and dug a grave for your heart.
(Translated from Arabic by Nizar Sartawi)
Last updated May 16, 2012