by Adil al-Qassas
Translated from Arabic to English by Musa Murawih
Your exhausted voice, through the phone,
was it exhausted by grief or was it exhausted by grief?
I did not sleep, since the moment I saw your voice, I did not sleep,
although I was bristling with beer, gin, and late-night stays with friends, who found me a glimmer of homeland, I did not sleep
This distance heaped you up in my eyes a meadow for the passersby, sprouted you – on my tongue – a garden for friends
Oh, you, the wholesome being, Did the clouds breast fed you?
I hold you in mind, I carry you, in my secret throat, a signboard against swelter, wilting, and contamination
To you, ensanguined in a peerless wait:
Set the sight of your heart on the hope that the verdant is coming
And prepare whatever dew you can muster
Set the sight of your heart on the hope that the verdant is coming
And prepare whatever caravan song you can muster
Adil Al-Qassas