Sunday, 18 March 2012

Sunday Poem


I am the one who has not been killed yet
at war, by earthquake or street accident.
What shall I do
with these years that wave before me
like the sea before the pelican?
After mailing the flower of my words
with letters and sympathy cards,
when my future's been etched
like a swan on a school blackboard
do I explain my dreams
with whispers and touches, like a blind man
or leave them to flow down the sides of my head
like glue down trees at the equator?
Let my windows usher in
a little breath from the forest!
I'm about to suffocate.
My lungs strain to escape my chest
like an orphan's eyes.
My voice dies off like the thunder's,
having no future generation to sing to
nor any old mouth to return to.
Hey, builders:
prop me up with a stone!
I crack like walls mixed by crooked contractors,
collapse like snow hills under the spring sun.

If one could change countries,
like dancers in nightclubs!
From Joy is Not My Profession (1994) by Muhammad al-Maghut, translated by John Asfour.

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