Before I Write About Your Eyes… My Beloved
Before I write about your eyes, my beloved,
I must ask the tree for permission.
Before I write about your face, my princess,
I must ask the moon for permission.
Before I write about the sea and my tempests,
I must ask the rain for permission.
Before I swim in the space of your bosom, my lady,
I must…
most certainly…
ask the homeland for permission.
These days, my beloved,
from our pockets emerges a summer butterfly
called homeland.
From our lips grows a vine of Levant
called homeland.
It springs from our shirts —
the minarets, the nightingales, the streams, the carnations, the quinces —
a small water sparrow called homeland.
I need to see you, my lady…
but I’m afraid I might touch the feelings of the homeland.
I want to whisper to you every night, my lady,
but I fear the windows of the homeland might hear me.
I want to make love in my own way,
but I am ashamed of my foolishness
before the sorrow of the homeland.
Do you think there is space in London’s mirrors
to see my shattered face?
Is there a safe place in your eyes
where I can spend the night?
I, who carry epochs beneath my coat,
find the hotels of sorrow too narrow,
the coats of love I wear too tight,
the words I write too confined.
As we know, the maps of poetry have changed.
Magnificent poems have been executed,
and wooden poems have been crowned.
The maps of women in my notes have changed.
The relief of mountains, valleys, wheat and grapes has changed.
The mines of silver and gold have changed.
There are no more women,
no coffee, nor Arabian dates.
Córdoba changed along with Granada.
The women of the Levant no longer smile at me,
nor the beauties of Aleppo.
If I flirt with the beauty of a woman,
the fish of the Arabian Sea tear me apart.
This is the age of prose, my beloved —
no more poetry, no love, no clouds, no rain.
What shall I do, my beloved,
to cast my longing into dusty notebooks?
I want to see you, my beloved,
perhaps to steal the fire of your eyes.
In your hands, I want to read the fate that awaits us.
In your womb, I want to plant
children… doves… and trees.
I want to lose myself in your sea, until the final voyage.
I want a thousand things,
but… I missed the train.
Is there, in London’s cafés,
a single table
and a good coffee
that could wash my weary heart?
Tell me, where can I escape my own memory?
If I order breakfast, my lady,
Abu Lahab seizes it from me.
If I enter the bathhouse,
Abu Lahab awaits me.
If I mention a city’s name on the phone,
Abu Lahab cuts in on the line.
If I invite a beautiful woman
to dinner tonight…
Abu Lahab sits in her lap.
Is there a small corner in London’s cafés
without Arabs?
In the mornings, I look for a newspaper —
Chinese, Korean, Indian —
to find solace, far from the Arab oratory,
and the Arab heroics!
I comb through history, my lady,
phrase by phrase,
page by page,
dot by dot —
yet I see only tents devouring tents,
a regime toppling another regime,
no heroes in sight.
Are we, perhaps,
one great lie —
we, the Arabs?
