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To Sanaa
Your mobile’s dead
your landline’s not responding;
on Facebook your picture’s gone away,
the national flag draped down
over your smile,
over the gleam in your eyes.
I move along the wall: your wall,
I scrutinize it, clicking and updating,
I brush from it the dust of grief
and stillness.
The clouds above the country could clear;
the wall might split open
on your captive face.
As though it truly mattered
I brooded fretfully and weighed it up:
has revolution swept the land?
Has spring, a whirlwind, passed through
for your absence to flourish
in autumn?
Or have I missed the train
to remain right here:
an indifferent witness?
I lit up Al-Jazeera
where coddled Arabs
set revolutions ablaze
in sister states,
frame hearts
and impetuous scenarios
and compose ad lib laments
sung by a turbaned chorus
to the strains of an orchestra coached
to mourn.
Nothing new in Arabism:
killing is the order of the day
and blood up to the knees.
There, on the revolution’s stage
tragedy is comedy,
rulers vampires,
and the people a clutch of fools
careering after a tattered rag
they think a flag
and like a crowd of extras
chanting: “The people want . . .”
With trembling fingers I pluck up
the remote
and put out the revolution
that your smile might flutter in my mind
and I rally, sleepwalking, to your banner.
You are my flag and my revolution
and I am your loving people,
your beloved leader.
I take up the receiver
(the heart wants it so):
your mobile’s dead
and your landline’s ringing,
Ringing . . . but no answer.
On Facebook
the homeland’s colours hide
your smile.
Your smile is sweeter
than spring,
than all the seasons;
your smile is more magnificent
than the crowds in full cry,
more radiant than the people when they rise up
and sing, “My country”;
your smile, a joy
at every gathering,
your smile, God’s protection settled
in my heart,
your smile –
O beat of my heart –
exalted above every banner,
sweeter than the national flag.
Translated by Robin Moger
Published in Arabic on www.kikah.com
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