bARABie – Hard Hitting Facts

November 23, 2007

Mohammed Al Dura remembered by Mahmoud Darwish

Filed under: Uncategorized — barabie @ 5:44 am

Click here to watch and hear Mahmoud Darwish recite this poem in Arabic with French translation.

by Mahmoud Darwish

A bird terrorized
by the hell from the sky,
Muhammad nests
in his father’s arms:
Keep me from flying, father,
my wings are still
weak against the wind . . . and the light is black

would like to go home again,
without a bicycle . . .
or a new shirt.
to get back to his school bench . . .
his book of grammar and conjugations:
Take me home, father,
so I could do my homework
and live my life, bit by bit . . .
on the seaside,
under the palm trees,
nothing more, nothing.

faces an army,
without stones,
or shards of stars.
He didn’t see the wall
on which he could write:
“My freedom will not die.”
He has no freedom, yet,
to defend,
no horizon
for the dove of Picasso,
still born to a name that makes him bear its curse . . . . How many more children
will be born to the same curse,
without a country . . . without a chance for childhood?
Where will they dream,
if a dream came to them . . .
when the land is a wound . . .
and a temple?

sees his death, inexorable, coming. But he suddenly remembers
a panther he saw on TV,
a powerful panther who had
a fawn at its mercy
but, once near it,
smelled the milk
and did not devour it.
As if milk tamed wild beasts.
I, too, would escape,
the boy tells himself,
and he sobs: I am hidden,
over there,
deep inside my mother’s closet. I will escape . . . and I will tell my story.

a poor angel,
at point-blank range from
his pitiless hunter’s rifle.
One long hour while
a camera captures
each motion of the boy
who joins his shadow.
His face, like the dawn, is clearly in view.
His heart, like an apple, is clearly in view.
His ten fingers, like candles, are clearly in view.
And the dew, on his trousers, is clearly in view. . . .
His hunter could have given himself a moment of thought,
to say to himself: I will spare him while waiting till he learns to spell, correctly, his Palestine. . . .
I will spare him now, a token of my conscience,
and kill him later,
when he rebels

Baby Jesus asleep and dreaming inside
an icon
made of copper,
an olive branch
and the soul of a people reborn

blood superfluous
for the prophets’ search,
thus ascends,
to the celestial Jujube*
O Muhammad!


1 Comment »

  1. Arabs murder their own child in cold blood and then write poetic lies about it.

    How sweet and thoughtful.

    Comment by Mafish Falastin — November 23, 2007 @ 7:51 pm

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