also angry arab translation of musa

June 7, 2007 at 8:34 am (middle east, palestine, poetry)

“O, comrade
My heart is fatigued
and my dreams are dark
My night is cold
and there are only
ashes in my fireplace
Do I sing?
I was singing yesterday
I had a house, and chats
and food
My fields were islands
of goodness, and I was
carrying the crop with
my right hand
and the joy of the folks
were in my left hand
O comrade
Don’t ask about the poems
I did not lose the white poems
They are enamored with my
night, woven with warmth and tales
My lazy beach
is slipping on the morning [like]
I have become, and my night, have
from bullets and shrapnels
and my morning is filling coasts
with the remains of victims
and blood is painting my horizons
with worries and disasters
o blood of children,
you have not left any remains
of love
you weave poetry, not
coals for fireplaces
producing warmth and filling
the womb of warmth with poems
o comrade
`Id has arrived, and my children
are barefoot
covering the sun with thin arms
`Id has arrived, and my children
are unclothed
And their nights with the boogyman
are long…
O comrade
For whom is God?
For whom is God?
For them, the conquerers?
to the women of the conquerers?
For the children of conquerers?
I will not pray for a god who
make the usurpers victorious
His face is in the face of my enemies
and his behind is in my face
His hand is giving my enemies
and I have not worshiped other
than Him
O comrade
My God has been lost
among the conquerers
I will not pray for a God
who is lost among the conquerors”


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