Selections

They go, light in spirit, light on feet,
wanderers, sons of devils – ascetic,
carrying some carpets of love,
a piece of sack
some clothes, and dust.
They neither built a house nor left any shadows
they were fractures of fractures
tired from the shivering of their bodies between death and death,
from the sun’s break-up beneath the earth.
Destruction has prevailed.
Sleep, my little child,
a god will pass me,
a god has just passed me.
The sun rises to touch my forehead.
We walked in the sun,
then we poured a stream upon you,
then we saw you
crossing the earth slightly.
Sleep, my little child,
a god will pass me
a god has just passed me,
caressed my hair and slept in my bed.
Who are you?
A back door that cannot keep out the windstorm?
A water skin that leaks water?
A fireplace where fire dies?
You are the house that collapsed on its inhabitants.
You are the fence between the sky and my face.
Since those engravings,
those chains,
those bridges,
those sublime plants,
and those date palms,
Ama-ar-gi
O freedom
do you recognise your Sumerian name?
Be naked
daughter of my flesh and bones
and may you bathe in the fountain.
In the pure fountain may you bathe.
Let all worshippers come to watch you,
the ten suras,
let the wind come to enter into you.
No wind will be left but to storm you
No sand will be left, but to turn green within you
No death will be left, but to be reborn within you
Creatures! May you come, all, with your clothes,
the daugher of my flesh and bones is naked in the pure fountain.
The sun roared
the earth shook beneath me,
I was alone, standing alone.
His face was sad as my hands.
My hands became birds.
Come, son of my mother and my bones,
I made a bed as wide as the Euphrates.
Your name, my beloved, is raised so high,
I expose it to the sun, and the plants green
I expose it to the wind, and the water dances
I expose it to the sea, and the harbour rejoices.
Lead me to sleep
the day was as long as your shadow on the wall
the evening was as heavy as your step on the strange earth
Lead me to sleep,
my heart is sad,
and all creatures sleep.

What will Gilgamish do
in this house?
in this room?
in this bed?
I will sleep gently
waking up gently in the morning.
I will go down to the market,
as a bag to be filled with rice and figs.
Be at peace,
I will not slaughter the monster, or enter the forest
I will return quickly.
I see hands waving to me: Come!
A river bank waving to me: Come!
A boat waving to me: Come!
Where did I see this river before?
And the dancing fish – where did I catch them before?
Did you forget? You travelled so long.
Lead me to the water
Every morning the waves change me
I see myself walking on the water, on the beaches I knew before
I saw Achilles singing on the sand:
Take me to that distant country
to drink its water and be strong enough to return the tops to the date palms.
But I said to him: “Take your anthem and go. How can you return the heel to the foot.”
I went strolling lightly on the sand.
Sleep, my little child,
a god will visit me after a while
the snow will fall upon my hair
the sun will come to take me from my sleep
Sleep, my little child.
I saw my friend,
my friend, who was gone since childhood,
my friend, whom I loved,
taking a nap on the shore,
alone, as I was,
alone, lying pale as before.
He smelt my scent
and rose, as tall as before – I remembered my family’s date palm.
He said to me: “Why did you come? Did the war end?”
He kissed me, then returned to sleep.
I saw the clay of God on his face.
Sleep, my child,
mainlands sleep,
monsters sleep,
he who doesn’t sleep, sleeps
the creatures complete the circle of life – and sleep.



Translated by the author
with thanks to Richard McKane

from the collection, ‘Mahtraqa bil miyah’
[‘Burned by Water’], Dar al-Warrak, Beirut, April 2000