Sun stroke

We were born of a sun stroke
of the stroke of scythe against wind
and of horn against stone
We threw the placenta to the dogs
and our soul into a pool of gloom
Like poor women we embroidered
our lips on the fabric of silence
Impure we went to the dawn prayer
to the flower garden
and memories of childhood
Sand is our grain
and sand is the horse's fodder
We climbed the sand gasping for breath
and worn out we came down
No evidence of our names
except an alphabet not cited in the dictionary
no evidence of our forbears
except the silence of dogs at the door
We got hitched to our shoelaces
and to the hair of eyelashes
and to the tails of comets
We crouched like dogs before the door
crouched cheerless before the flower
And the flower is the blood sacrifice of midday
Our flour was strewn everywhere
and despair felt like iron in our finger tips
Grant us respite so we may recognize our shadows
and our hooves may grow
A giant bell hangs over our head
a persistent bell makes us lose the way
We pray to silence the great chime on the lips of our dead
Take us by the hand
and the waist
hold us below our breasts
we are kin of dust and fire
This is our finger
wet to explore the wind
wounded by our endless questions
We fooled around with our names
and the nakedness of shirt buttons
and drove prayers like pigs in front of us
We hitched the donkeys to children's ankles
and hitched autumn to summer
to calm down our shivers
Call us from behind our rooms
call us with a scandalous voice that would shame us bare
call us with a voice that would rip apart wood and bamboo
Lead our prayers so we may pray beyond the bound of duty
and our souls stand erect within our bodies
Bitter is our lunch
our dinner is as dry as stone
and silence flows like menstrual blood between our legs
We pray to crush our kidney stones
and pray to break the bread of our supper
No immunity for the pebble
or the rose --
all lie within the range of thunder
We were born of the inversion of the lip
and the eyelash
we were born of the stroke of horn against stone.

The Reapers

-- Who are you, trekking along rough roads,
sweat secreting from your bodies?
-- We are the reapers of the rolling hills.
We set out at dawn
and harvested the wind
and time
and hallucinations sprouting
like the grasses of the savanna
O! how weird our harvest can be
If the night hadn't fallen so soon
we would've reaped with our scythes
silence, death and stone
and descended toward the sea
and gathered the waves and their quavering
to make everything perfect,
perfect and definite.

Translated by Sharif Elmusa from 'Al-Karmel' magazine, No 67, Ramallah 2002 and reprinted from Banipal No 15/16.

The rose and the bull

At night the rose is dark
At night a black bull
flies from the rose
It pierces the skin
with its two silver horns
At night the rose is dark
The spilt blood
of the hapless passer-by
drips from its horns
At night the rose is dark
But in daylight
the rose's black bull
is only a shadow
lying in ambush
So beware
when you pick
the rose
Beware
Carry a dagger
close to your heart
to butcher
that bull
which lies
all day
folded in petals
at the heart of the rose

Night

Night is opening its poisonous flower
It seeps through the sky
like a tincture spilt into water
Night is unfurling its flower
for the solitary insomniacs
who stumble along from step to step
Night is enfolding the city
as the homeless come out
from their doorways and basements
Night is opening its poisonous flower
as dread rolls down the stairs
like a melon
The last one
Spare me
the last bullet in the revolver
so death can wait at the doorway
Spare me
the last gasp in the lungs
so breath can expire with hard labour
Spare me
the last copy of the key
so only the ghosts can get in
Translated by the author and Sarah Maguire. Reprinted from Banipal No 7.

© Translation copyright Banipal and translator. All rights reserved.

A Tavern

Here the dead are carousing
Here they shake their heads
to the music of shroud bells.

Emigration

They're all gone
towards that place in the North
where the grasses grow
to the height of their breasts
They left behind them
tattered strips from their children's clothes
and the pegs of their tents
They're gone
Their children on the backs of mules
Their youths carrying baskets
and their sheep's bells
They were like a cloud
climbing up to heaven
The more they penetrated the land
the more their shadows expanded
and returned towards the camps

Their dogs were mute
They would surpass the migrating crowd , then sit down
their eyes watching
the moving shadows
as they ran back ward
like a dark river.