Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Wadih Sa’adeh

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


لم نُوقِظِ النسائمَ النائمةَ
فقط مشيْنا
يُرافِقُنا مِلْحُ الفجر
وأصواتُ الكلاب،
ترَكْنا جُزَرًا بكاملِها هناك
وفَحْمَ ملائكةٍ في الأقبيةِ وجذوعًا مكسورةً لآلهةٍ
وأبديَّةً ثكلى،
بُقَعُ زيتٍ مَشَتْ معنا على ثيابِنا
وشَحْمُ أحلام
وكانَ في قلوبِ بعضِنا عرباتٌ مُخَلَّعَةٌ
ومواشٍ نافقةٌ،
رافقتنا أصواتُ الكلابِ حتَّى غِبْنا
وعلى الدروبِ، تحتَ أقدامِنا
اكتشفنا نوعًا نادرًا
من الأنين.
هَايْ، أنتَ
ها أنا الآنَ وَصَلْتُ
جديدًا طازجًا مثلَ فاكهةٍ لم تَسْمَعْ بها
اعْطِني سيكارة،
معي حكاياتٌ غريبة
عن ملوكٍ ومعارِكَ ومزهريَّات
عن شعوبٍ اكتشفَتْها الرياحُ بالصُّدْفَة
وأسماكِ أرواح
على الرمالِ
حكاياتٌ لكَ أنتَ وَحْدَكْ
اعطِني سيكارة،
ومعي أيضًا تلالٌ من السنواتِ
أريدُ أن أبيعَها
تلالٌ مُشْرِفَةٌ على محيطاتٍ
يرقصُ فيها الحيتانُ
مع الغَرْقَى
مُشْرِفَةٌ على خُلْجانٍ يمكنُ فيها بناءُ منتجعاتٍ
لأعمارٍ أخرى، جميلةٍ
تلالٌ، تلالٌ
إدْفَعْ ما شئتَ
وخُذْها.

لم نُوقِظِ النائمِينَ ولم نَقُلْ كلمةً
فقط سمِعْنا الكلماتِ الأخيرةَ للأبوابِ
التي كانت تئزُّ عند دخولنا وخروجنا
ومشيْنا
تركْنا صُوَرًا على الحائطِ
رائحةَ زيتونٍ في الزاويةِ
أعضاءَ حكاياتٍ على المناشِرِ مَشْكُوكةً مع التبغِ
ورأسَكَ يا رياض الذي صار
نيازِك.

مُقَطَّعِينَ مُخَلَّعِينَ واثبينَ
على عُكَّازاتٍ في الشوارعِ
نَصِلُ بأعضاءٍ ناقصةٍ حيثُ نذهبُ وحينَ نغادرُ
نتركُ بعضَ أعضاءٍ
لنا عيونٌ وأقدامٌ
لا تزالُ هناك
لذلكَ، حينَ نمشي، لا تشعرُ الدروبُ بنا
وإذا انهمرَ مطرٌ تكونُ في مكانٍ آخر
تَدْمَعُ عيونٌ
اعطني سيكارة
من الدُّخانِ تُولَدُ الآلهة
تُولَدُ الكنوزُ والسماواتُ والبهاءُ،
شوقي صديقي
لكنَّهُ بعدَ قليلٍ سيصيرُ سِكَّةَ حديد
أريدُ فقط قبلَ ذلكَ أن أشربَ سيكارةً معه
كلُّ قطاراتِ سِيدْني تمرُّ في رأسِهِ عَبْرَ "سيدنهام"
وهو على وشك أن ينفجرَ اعطني سيكارةً،
وخضْرُ الذي رمى بندقيَّتَهُ في الجبالِ ونَزَلَ
صارَ رسالةً بلا عنوان
ينقلونَهُ من بريدٍ إلى بريد
ولا يَصِل،
من الدُّخانِ تُولَدُ الطريقُ
تُولَدُ العناوينُ و البيوتُ
وأصحابُها
من الدُّخانُ يُولَدُ اللهُ هاتِ
سيكارةً
سأُرْسِلُ لكَ حينَ أعودُ هِضابًا من التبغِ عن مناشِرِنا
سلالَ فاكهةٍ وبَيْضٍ
من دجاجاتٍ نُرَبِّيها على حُبوبِ أحلامٍ
وتبيضُ كنوزًا سأُرْسِلُ لكَ بعضَها أيضًا
وذاتَ يومٍ اخترَعْنا
عروقًا للصمتِ
مشَيْنا نَشُكُّها في أجسادِ الدروبِ
مشَيْنا في هواءٍ قارصٍ لِنُبَكِّلَ أزرارَ الطُّرُقِ
وكانَ لَحْمُ صدورِها يرتجفُ
أمامَ عيونِنا
رأينا تحتَ الجسورِ أحشاءَ حياةٍ
وشظايا عيونٍ
تبحثُ عن نظراتِها
إسْمَعْ، رأينا الحياةَ
ترتجفُ تحتَ شجرةٍ
وهَمَّ بعضُنا أنْ يخلعَ قميصَهُ
ويُغطِّيها،
مشَيْنا بصدورٍ عاريةٍ وكانَ الهواءُ
صديقَنا
يأتينا بزهورٍ
ويلعبُ بشَعْرِنا
كانَ الهواءُ يحملُ لنا نظراتٍ
ضيَّعَها أصحابُها
وهُمْ يحدِّقونَ في الشفق.

معنا أساورُ معنا شوارعُ معنا ظلال
معنا هواءٌ و قَصَب
وفي حقائبِنا حفيفُ صُوَرٍ وضمَّاداتُ حنين
وعُكَّازاتُ أصواتٍ تركضُ من جبلٍ إلى جبل،
مَشَيْنا
وكانت ورقةُ لوزٍ أمامَ الباب
نظرْنا إليها
وتابَعْنا.

أنيسُ بعينيه الغَيْمَتَيْنِ فوقَ سهلِ برتقال
بعروقِ أصابعِهِ الماضيةِ نَحْوَ أن تصيرَ
أقلامًا ناشفةً
وبقمحِ أحلام
يَنْقُدُها طيرٌ عن فمِهِ،
وغَسَّانُ بعُودٍ عزَفَ عليهِ كُلَّ الطريق
حتَّى صارَتِ الشوارعُ أوتارَه.

لم يكن عندنا غيرُ
رائحةِ تبغٍ وزيتونٍ
حمَلْناها على ثيابِنا ومضَيْنا
مَشَيْنا خفيفينَ
لئلاَّ نُزْعِجَ ندى الطريقِ
ولم نَحْنِ غُصْنًا
لم نُوقِظِ النسيمَ
لم نُوَدِّعِ الأصدقاءَ لم نَقُلْ كلمة

فقط
مَشَيْنا.
Close

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.

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.
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