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الأحد، 20 يناير 2019

عمر و الرمل ورسائل اليانوفى

 
Omar, the Sand, and the Letters of Yanoufa – The Killed and the ExiledAnd I am their remnant A book between whose covers lies loss And the final chapters of the pure ones I walk over the sidewalks of my exile And my feet carve a furrow in the soil toward the postman The mosques of the Muslims breathe the dawn And the churches awaken the morning Six o’clock I search my dusty mail And find no letter from Yanoufi And the winds of the East tear through the corridors of the tents Slowly, Omar Wipe your nose on your bereaved mother’s dress She digs the earth to sell the sand And buy a cherry Your lips tremble And you resemble Zaatari, and your shirt is dust Repeat what you said They will carry me to Rome against my will “Repeat what you said, Omar?” I do not want the cities of the philosophers Let them leave me here on the borders of the homeland Do you long for Al-Jāyah and the rocks of the volcano? Then what am I to say about the Orontes, Omar? My fingers are no longer candles To burn and give light And the snow pigs search for truffles in my desert Now my soul is being threshed And the final wedge is driven into my chest Do you know, Omar? My field that I abandoned when its ears of grain swayed Did not burn The wind harvested it The earth clasped it to her breast The sky watered it with its water Now my field is green And my house is demolished And my memories and writings lie under the rubble Give me your hand so I may kiss it And take me to you I will be the pickaxe for you Place me in the mouth of the earth Tomorrow you will find me Two baskets of sand Just… smile ~ Bridges of Infinity Aqel Al-Ayyash Thursday, 26 November 2015

Omar, the Sand, and the Letters of Yanoufa – The Killed and the ExiledAnd I am their remnant A book between whose covers lies loss And the final chapters of the pure ones I walk over the sidewalks of my exile And my feet carve a furrow in the soil toward the postman The mosques of the Muslims breathe the dawn And the churches awaken the morning Six o’clock I search my dusty mail And find no letter from Yanoufi And the winds of the East tear through the corridors of the tents Slowly, Omar Wipe your nose on your bereaved mother’s dress She digs the earth to sell the sand And buy a cherry Your lips tremble And you resemble Zaatari, and your shirt is dust Repeat what you said They will carry me to Rome against my will “Repeat what you said, Omar?” I do not want the cities of the philosophers Let them leave me here on the borders of the homeland Do you long for Al-Jāyah and the rocks of the volcano? Then what am I to say about the Orontes, Omar? My fingers are no longer candles To burn and give light And the snow pigs search for truffles in my desert Now my soul is being threshed And the final wedge is driven into my chest Do you know, Omar? My field that I abandoned when its ears of grain swayed Did not burn The wind harvested it The earth clasped it to her breast The sky watered it with its water Now my field is green And my house is demolished And my memories and writings lie under the rubble Give me your hand so I may kiss it And take me to you I will be the pickaxe for you Place me in the mouth of the earth Tomorrow you will find me Two baskets of sand Just… smile ~ Bridges of Infinity Aqel Al-Ayyash Thursday, 26 November 2015

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الخميس، 26 نوفمبر 2015



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