Walking Away

We didn’t disturb the drowsy winds,
we just walked away
accompanied by the salty dawn
and the howling of dogs.
We had left untouched islands there,
angels’ coal in the vaults, God’s broken trunks
and a bereaved eternity.
Oil spots on our clothes, walked with us,
and the fat of dreams.
Some of us carried in our hearts, broken carts,
and dead livestock.
The howling of the dogs stayed with us
until we disappeared
Under our feet, on the road,
we heard a strange
moaning.

Hi, you!
I have already arrived
like an unusual, exotic fruit.
Give me a cigarette.
I have amazing tales to tell
about kings, battles and urns;
about people found by chance by the wind,
and souls of fish
on the sands.
These are tales only for you.
Give me a cigarette.

I carry with me many hills I want to sell,
hills overlooking oceans
where whales are dancing
around those who have drowned;
overlooking bays were resorts could be built
for other enchanted lives.
Hills, hills,
pay whatever you like
and take everything.

We didn’t awaken those who were sleeping
nor did we utter a word.
We only heard the last words of the doors
which were squeaking as we walked in or out.
We left pictures on the walls,
a scent of olives in the corner,
loads of tales spread out on tobacco racks
and your head, oh Riyadh,
aflame with falling stars.

We arrive incomplete on crutches,
in the streets.

Wherever we go
we leave a part of us behind.
Our eyes and feet remain there.
Thus, when we walk, the roads will not feel us.
If it rains, eyes will shed tears
somewhere else.
Give me a cigarette.
From the smoke, God will appear
with wealth, heaven, and splendour.
Shawki is my friend
but he will soon become a railway track.
Before this happens I would like
to smoke a cigarette with him.
All Sydney’s lines pass through his head
in Sydenham,
and he is about to burst out – ‘give me a cigarette.’

Khodr, who threw away his gun in the mountains,
has become like a letter with no address.
He could be posted from one post office to another
but never reach his destination.
Out of smoke, the road appears and houses
with their owners.
Out of smoke, God is born.
Give me a cigarette.
When I return, I’ll send you loads of tobacco from
our spreading racks,
and baskets of fruit and eggs
from hens we have fattened from the grains of our dreams;
they lay wealth, which I’ll send you.
One day we invented veins for silence,
we would walk ahead, threading them into the path.
We walked in the harsh air, buckling the road
and we could see breasts trembling.
We could see beneath the bridge, the offal from
living creatures
and chunks of eyes search for their vision.
Listen ! We have seen life shivering beneath a tree
and we took off our shirts
to cover it.
We walked on with bare chests
and the air as our companion,
bringing us flowers
and playing with our hair.
It brought us a stare
lost by somebody
while watching daylight fade.

With us – bracelets. With us – streets. With us – shadows.
With us – air and reeds.
In our bags is the rustle of photographs, the
bandages of longing
and the sound of crutches stumping from mountain to
mountain.
We walked on.
In front of our door there was leaf from an almond tree.
We looked at it but kept on walking.
Anise, his eyes like two clouds over a grove
of orange trees,
the veins of his fingers
like dry pencils,
with grains of dreams
being pecked from his lips by a bird.
Ghassan played his lute all the way
until the streets became its notes.

We have nothing except
the smell of tobacco and olives
that we’d carried with us.
We walked ahead lightly
so we didn’t disturb the dew.
We didn’t bend a branch
nor waken the breeze.
We didn’t say goodbye to our friend, we didn’t
utter a word,
we simply
walked on.

بقع زيت

بقع زيت