Lament
Those we love die like birds
mourned by orange trees which never wither
tomorrow when birds return to Ghaza
to peck at your blue window
while narcissus perfume is everywhere
and jasmine fills the air
the henna tree will still stand
alone, a stranger to the world
On dark alley walls
our comrades' deaths are announced
posters show their smiling faces
The usual way we learn
one has fallen on the long road
We discovered in blood's path
that death is life continuance
life deeply rooted in death
Yet when they drank to you in the pine woods
I asked why
a tear hesitated in my cousin's eye
the tear in her green eye
that told me of your death
what a great poster that'll make!
I burn with grief
I am no stone
yearning is a burden
for you bridge my life and death.
On Omar al-Mukhtar Street
foreign helmets that sting like whips
block your funeral
pursuing your beloved name
wrapped in a coffin that rests on Ghaza's wounds
. . . .
I am no stone
you fighter up to the moment of bitter death
whose perfume time after time rained down
from your window
penetrating you three times
on the fourth time you fell
dissolving all memories in my blood
floating on the tree-lined road to the old graveyard
where the grass laughed at my childhood's shadow
and accompanied me to your resting place
. . . .
I am no stone
so I welcome your magic footsteps
when they come
joy pours from my bosom
all doors open in my face
I blame myself
I pledge you will be my eternal shadow
Did they kill you?
Your wounds pierce every city
that lies dreaming in the summer
Trees bleed, bird wings break
the scent of basil everywhere
in the alleys
although passers-by
do not even notice you
don't they know your name is hunted?
That you are under siege?
. . . .
I am no stone
is it because blood's gleam
is all that's hopeful in the world that
we write our own histories
draw our faces' features in it
fix our seal
on the brows of the motherland
we love so well
building it anew?
In blood we appoint the time
to sow
for it is the secret to freshness
Is it because we refuse to multiply like weeds or seagrass
that lack identity or form
to define our origin
tears dance from me
my joy weeps
joy that stretches to include
the last arm hurling death
at the aggressor's patrol
that stalk your streets
which God has forsaken?
. . . .
Time never ends its moments
the pride of your grief purifies
all moments passing through
the mind of the stars
and the veins of the stones
No bullet will pass
without changing faces in some new way
Time will never end
for you are a beginning that never ceases
all about you the strangeness of things vanishes
they enjoy again the innocence of their first beginnings
I learn to perfection the art of waiting
on the sidewalks of love and fire
mourned by orange trees which never wither
tomorrow when birds return to Ghaza
to peck at your blue window
while narcissus perfume is everywhere
and jasmine fills the air
the henna tree will still stand
alone, a stranger to the world
On dark alley walls
our comrades' deaths are announced
posters show their smiling faces
The usual way we learn
one has fallen on the long road
We discovered in blood's path
that death is life continuance
life deeply rooted in death
Yet when they drank to you in the pine woods
I asked why
a tear hesitated in my cousin's eye
the tear in her green eye
that told me of your death
what a great poster that'll make!
I burn with grief
I am no stone
yearning is a burden
for you bridge my life and death.
On Omar al-Mukhtar Street
foreign helmets that sting like whips
block your funeral
pursuing your beloved name
wrapped in a coffin that rests on Ghaza's wounds
. . . .
I am no stone
you fighter up to the moment of bitter death
whose perfume time after time rained down
from your window
penetrating you three times
on the fourth time you fell
dissolving all memories in my blood
floating on the tree-lined road to the old graveyard
where the grass laughed at my childhood's shadow
and accompanied me to your resting place
. . . .
I am no stone
so I welcome your magic footsteps
when they come
joy pours from my bosom
all doors open in my face
I blame myself
I pledge you will be my eternal shadow
Did they kill you?
Your wounds pierce every city
that lies dreaming in the summer
Trees bleed, bird wings break
the scent of basil everywhere
in the alleys
although passers-by
do not even notice you
don't they know your name is hunted?
That you are under siege?
. . . .
I am no stone
is it because blood's gleam
is all that's hopeful in the world that
we write our own histories
draw our faces' features in it
fix our seal
on the brows of the motherland
we love so well
building it anew?
In blood we appoint the time
to sow
for it is the secret to freshness
Is it because we refuse to multiply like weeds or seagrass
that lack identity or form
to define our origin
tears dance from me
my joy weeps
joy that stretches to include
the last arm hurling death
at the aggressor's patrol
that stalk your streets
which God has forsaken?
. . . .
Time never ends its moments
the pride of your grief purifies
all moments passing through
the mind of the stars
and the veins of the stones
No bullet will pass
without changing faces in some new way
Time will never end
for you are a beginning that never ceases
all about you the strangeness of things vanishes
they enjoy again the innocence of their first beginnings
I learn to perfection the art of waiting
on the sidewalks of love and fire
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