Unfortunately, It Was Paradise. Mahmoud Darwish
barbarians will come. The emperor’s wife will be abducted. Drums will beat loudly. Drums will beat so that horses will leap over human bodies from the Aegean Sea to the Dardanelles. So why should we be concerned? What do our wives have to do with horse racing?
The emperor’s wife will be abducted. Drums will beat loudly and other barbarians will come. Barbarians will fill the cities’ emptiness, slightly higher than the sea, mightier than the sword in a time of madness. So why should we be concerned? What do our children have to do with the children of this impudence?
Drums will beat loudly and other barbarians will come. The emperor’s wife will be taken from his bedroom. From his bedroom he will launch a military assault to return his bedmate to his bed. Why should we be concerned? What do fifty thousand victims have to do with this brief marriage?
Can Homer be born after us . . . and myths open their doors to the throng?
They Would Love to See Me Dead
They would love to see me dead, to say: He belongs to us, he is ours.
For twenty years I have heard their footsteps on the walls of the night.
They open no door, yet here they are now. I see three of them:
a poet, a killer, and a reader of books.
Will you have some wine? I asked.
Yes, they answered.
When do you plan to shoot me? I asked.
Take it easy, they answered.
They lined up their glasses all in a row and started singing for the people.
I asked: When will you begin my assassination?
Already done, they said . . . Why did you send your shoes on ahead to your soul?
So it can wander the face of the earth, I said.
The earth is wickedly dark, so why is your poem so white?
Because my heart is teeming with thirty seas, I answered.
They asked: Why do you love French wine?
Because I ought to love the most beautiful women, I answered.
They asked: How would you like your death?
Blue, like stars pouring from a window—would you like more wine?
Yes, we’ll drink, they said.
Please take your time. I want you to kill me slowly so I can write my last
poem to my heart’s wife. They laughed, and took from me
only the words dedicated to my heart’s wife.
When the Martyrs Go to Sleep
When the martyrs go to sleep, I wake to protect them from professional mourners.
I say: Have a good morning at home, a home of clouds and trees, a mirage of water.
I congratulate them on their safety from injury, and the generosity of the slaughterhouse.
I take time so they can take me from time. Are we all martyrs?
I whisper: Friends, at least save us one wall for our laundry lines, and one night for songs.
I hang your names wherever you wish, so go to sleep. Sleep on the trellis of that sour vine.
I protect your dreams from your guards’ knives, from the revolt
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