State of Siege by Mahmoud Darwish Here, between spirals of smoke on the steps of the house,
No time to time.
As someone who rises to God,
forget the pain.
Nothing here echoes Homer.
Myths come knocking on our door, if they want.
Nothing echoes Homer. Here, a general
Dig for a
was asleep under the ruins of Troy to come.
you, standing in standing in the doorway, entrance fees,
Drink Arabic coffee with us.
hear that you are men like us.
you, standing in the doorway of the houses, out of our
dawn. We feel sure to be
Men like you!
When the planes disappear, the doves soar
white, wash the cheeks of heaven With
wings free, pick up the glow and possession
age and play. At the top, even higher
The doves fly off white. Ah, if the sky
were true ... (I said a man running between two bombs).
Cypresses behind the soldiers, minarets that rise
order not to collapse the sky. Behind the iron fence
piss soldiers - the shelter of a tank -
And the autumnal day ends its trajectory golden
In a street as wide as a church after Sunday mass ...
(at a murderess) If I had contemplated the
victim's face and thought, you would have remembered your mother in-room
Gas, would have thrown away the reasons And the gun
'd changed his mind: that's not how you find an identity.
The siege is waiting, waiting on a scale
Where more inclined raging hurricane.
Suns, we're just drinking the bitter cup,
If it were not for the visits of the rainbow.
We have brothers behind the esplanade,
good brother, who love us. Look at us and cry.
Then you say in secret:
"Oh, if quest'assedio be declared ..." They leave the sentence unfinished
:
"Do not leave us alone, do not forget us."
Our losses: between two and eight martyrs, day after day.
And ten wounded.
And twenty homes. And fifty olive trees ...
Add to the intrinsic loss
What is the poem, the play, the unfinished canvas.
A woman told the cloud: cover my
Because I loved her clothes drenched with his blood.
If you are not rain, my love
tree
Be Filled with fertility, be tree If you are not
tree, my love Be stone
saturated humidity, be stone
If you are not stone, my love Be moon
In the dream of the beloved, be moon
(So \u200b\u200ba woman who gave burial to his son)
O watchmen! Are not you tired of spying
the light in our salt
And the glow of the rose in our wound,
You're not tired, watchmen?
A strip of this infinite absolute blue
would be enough to alleviate the burden of this time
And wipe the mud from this place.
that the soul falls from his horse
And walk along the silk
On my side, hand in hand, like two longtime friends who share
dry bread
And a glass of wine from old vines,
order to cross this road together.
Then our day will follow different paths: I
beyond nature, and her
you prefer to climb to another peak.
We are far from our fate as
birds which nest in the crevices of the statues, O
the chimney, or rested in tents
Where the prince went hunting.
On my rubble the shadow green check,
dozing The wolf in the skin of my goat. Dream as
I like the angel,
That life is here ... not there.
When you're under siege, time becomes space
Petrified in its eternity
When you're under siege, space becomes time That
has failed in its past and its future. This
besieged martyr I check every time I see a new day
And I ask: Where were you? Note on dictionaries
All words that I've offered free
And the sleepers from the echo ringing.
Martyr explained to me: I did not look beyond the plain
the virgins of immortality, because I love life
On earth, among the pines and fig trees,
But it was inaccessible,
so I took aim With the last thing that belongs to me: the blood
In the body of blue.
The martyr warned me: Do not believe their stories
Believe me, father, when I look at my pictures and get tears:
How could you share our lives, my son,
Why did you before? I was there, I was here first!
The martyr me no respite: I just moved my furniture
With worn.
I put a gazelle on my bed,
and a crescent moon on my finger,
To relieve my pain.
The siege will continue, to convince us to choose
A slavery that does not hurt,
In freedom!
Resisting is: Make sure
force of the heart and testes, and your tenacious evil: Evil
of hope.
in what remains of the dawn, I walk to my outer shell
in what remains of the night, listening to the sound of footsteps echoing inside me
greet people like me who chases
The drunkenness of light, the splendor of the Butterfly ,
darkness of this tunnel.
greet those who drink with me from my glass
In the darkness of a night that both surrounds us:
greet my ghost.
For me, my friends always prepare a feast
from God, a quiet burial in the shade One of the oaks
epitaph engraved in the marble of time
And always at the funeral ran before them:
who died ... who?
Writing is a puppy biting nothingness Writing
wounds without a trace of blood.
Our cups of coffee. The birds, the green trees
shadow blue, the sun slips
wall in the wall with a gazelle leaps
Water from the clouds as unlimited - all that remains.
Heaven. And other things
suspended by memories Reveal that this morning is powerful splendor
And we are the guests of eternity.
* This poem was written in 2002 by Mahmoud Darwish, the greatest Palestinian poet, died a year ago.
