Classic Poem

He's still among us
Fill his empty cup
Repeat the songs he raised
in chanting to the sky,
recall how wine and grief
could never weaken him —
Hand firm on the trigger,
Legs straight under the load,
A man of unfurling history,
he faced the ferocious motion of his time.
For him, the world had a solid core.

Naked, he dreamed death would be
the final shining cloak.
Humming the sad maijana ,
he swam in the sorrow of its tune.
" Maijana , oh maijana ,
death is a mantle that covers us,
just spare us the shame of defeat. "

When hunger dulled his sword,
he changed it to a sickle.
When sorrow bent the branches of his heart,
they drooped low with fruits.
When his basin filled with grief,
he transformed it to food
and the wind enveloped him
with compassionate sighs.

He's still among us
He has drunk his wine
so raise the glass!
He has consumed his whole life
in order to renew the living.
An unbreakable man —
When hunger raked
sharp streaks across the land,
he'd charge at his people,
sweep their constant invocations
to God's mercy, clipping the backbone
of prayer, and sweeping the pride of the tribes.

But days came when the enemy wore many colors,
famine impersonated faith,
fear begat sons and the clouds rained bombs.
The age of the metal bird surprised him
locked as he was on the land.
" This new thing in the sky,
My God, what power have I against it?
No horse can run this fast,
nor rifle shoot as far. "

He reeled with hidden pain:
wrenching off old traditions,
facing a new generation
with new weapons for the field.

His life grew scattered ...
but watch how he'll come back
wrapped in his mighty songs!
Fill his empty cup
and toast his " ataba singing voice —
You'll sense him returning
like the scent of fire on a flowing breeze.

He shed his disjointed life,
depending again on his shoulders, his arms,
never disguising the shreds of his days.
He pretended to be full
and the sickle in his hand
grew strong again.

Now he stands gloriously,
gleaming sword to one side,
a vibrant image framed on the wall.
In his eyes the lost legends still shine.

We remember his sigh —
" To drink to intoxication
is to drink the dregs.
I tasted wine's bitterness
but time moved on to surprise me.
I traversed the wilderness
from the first lisps of childhood
to these precious white locks. "

A knock at the door —
My family is alarmed,
but Grandfather smiles through his wrinkles
(we think he is crying) —
A stronger knock at the door!
He smiles again
" Open the door, fear not
these violent raps.
Open — your father perfects
the art of hospitality
and with a brave heart
meets his guests.
Courage has two faces:
One vanquishes enemies
and the other; clear and unmasked,
welcomes the visitor.
Open the door: I know his footsteps well.
I've chased him all my youth
in the raids and hunts.
Now he comes when I'm
exhausted from rushing after him.
Open and let him gaze into my eyes,
let him face his own weakness. "

The wind settled like a tamed creature
while storms muffled their blows —
Against the sky, his body stretched,
was lifted by light.
And the horizon
opened up toward the bedouin desert
while the pine trees knelt
on the aging hills.