Classic Poem

Two battles, hundreds of years ago —
remember Yarmouk? Remember Hittin?
The people are all there
waiting in the station of return.
They'll rise up, every one of them,
each wheatstalk worth a thousand stalks,
and what else?
Fighters are never vanquished.
They may be defeated —
they point a blow to the enemy
and fall,
but they do not resist
when resistance does not avail

For a long time we have not seen our feet.
We walk like a crippled forest of heads.
It is possible we might bend over the road
and see it,
that we might take off our old skin.

Woe to those who carry mountains
and topple under them,
to the angry who raise banners
and fall —
their shadows are heavy.
It would be better for them to sleep
in a palm forest, drink
the blessed waters
of its shade.

Woe to everyone who grips
the edge of day,
who clings to the last thread,
who believes in the final wall.
It would be better for them to
climb to the stars in a poem,
in a holy verse,
in a tune or sigh,
collecting the winds
in the suitcase of departure
away from the shores
and shapes of wounds.

Woe to them:
if only they would saddle their horses
and come down,
come down,
come down,
they might burn
and the ice return from the old wilderness
to obliterate these tombs.