The Sea Does Not Nurse Its Children
Your land cast you out,
So you settled on the wing of a poem.
Perhaps its letters won’t mislead… the one who failed you.
A homeland at the gate of hell, even if it seemed so—
Abandon it, for it wasn’t worthy.
The opposing trunk of the palm tree wasn’t shaken
So that ripe promises, like dates, might fall into your hand,
for the waves of a sea
whose cruel desires perhaps
tempted it…
to kill you.
Your land cast you out.
The breast of Arabism was no longer enough
to nurse you
a dream, shadowed by darkness,
its modesty within the borders.
The lofty ones accepted exile
with a dawn of sorrow that neglected you.
And you, who
took from your priest’s hand
the ember of preservation for the eternity that
will not betray you—
you believed those dwelling beside your soul,
and you were burned.
Destiny did not will it for you.
And it was as if they were the piece of candy, my child,
that fell from your mouth.
The sea does not nurse its children…
Sleep, my beloved.
It is a paradise for eternity, loftier
than a false nectar
we smell like a grave, its dwellers unconcerned.
And the lamb concealed in its lips
a song for the sorrow of your childhood.
Sleep, my beloved.
It is no longer from within history
that your innocence is condemned
or questioned.
This is its nature:
The sea does not nurse its children.
