Siah
16-09-04, 09:53
Salute to Baghdad
By Adonis
I
Put your coffee aside and drink something else,
Listening to what the invaders say:
With Heaven's blessing
We are directing a preventive war,
Carrying the water of life
From the banks of the Hudson and the Thames
So that it may flow in the Tigris and Euphrates.
A war against water and trees,
Against birds and children's faces,
A fire on the ends of sharp nails
Comes out of their hands,
The machine's hand taps their shoulders.
The air weeps,
Carried on a reed called earth;
The soil becomes red and black
From tanks and launchers;
On missiles and flying whales,
In a time improvised by shrapnel,
In space, volcanoes spitting their lava,
Stagger, O Baghdad, on your pierced sides;
The invaders were born smoothly
In the lap of a four-legged wind
From their private skies,
As it prepares the world
To be swallowed by the whale
Of their sacred language.
It's true, as the invaders say,
This mother-sky
Only devours its own children.
Do we, therefore, have to believe,
O invaders,
That there are prophetic missiles,
Carrying invasion,
That civilisation is only born out of depleted
uranium?
Old-new ashes under our feet:
Do you know which abyss you have reached
O you lost feet?
Our deaths live in the arms of the clock,
And our sorrows are about to sink their claws
In the bodies of stars.
O what a country this is:
Silence is its name,
And there is only pain;
There it is, filled with graves,
Some still, some moving.
O what a country this is:
A land swimming in fire,
Its people like green logs.
O how enchanting you are, Sumerian stone,
Gilgamesh still beats in your heart.
There, he is about to disembark,
Searching for life,
But his guide this time
Is nuclear dust.
We have shut the windows,
After wiping the glass with newspapers
Chronicling the invasion;
We have laid our last roses on the graves:
Where do we go?
Even the road does not believe our steps
Anymore.
II
A homeland is about to forget its name.
Why did the damask rose teach me
How to sleep in Syria's lap?
The killer has eaten the bread of song.
Poet, do not ask!
For nothing will wake this earth
Except rebellion!
London, April 1, 2003
Poems translated by Sinan Antoon
By Adonis
I
Put your coffee aside and drink something else,
Listening to what the invaders say:
With Heaven's blessing
We are directing a preventive war,
Carrying the water of life
From the banks of the Hudson and the Thames
So that it may flow in the Tigris and Euphrates.
A war against water and trees,
Against birds and children's faces,
A fire on the ends of sharp nails
Comes out of their hands,
The machine's hand taps their shoulders.
The air weeps,
Carried on a reed called earth;
The soil becomes red and black
From tanks and launchers;
On missiles and flying whales,
In a time improvised by shrapnel,
In space, volcanoes spitting their lava,
Stagger, O Baghdad, on your pierced sides;
The invaders were born smoothly
In the lap of a four-legged wind
From their private skies,
As it prepares the world
To be swallowed by the whale
Of their sacred language.
It's true, as the invaders say,
This mother-sky
Only devours its own children.
Do we, therefore, have to believe,
O invaders,
That there are prophetic missiles,
Carrying invasion,
That civilisation is only born out of depleted
uranium?
Old-new ashes under our feet:
Do you know which abyss you have reached
O you lost feet?
Our deaths live in the arms of the clock,
And our sorrows are about to sink their claws
In the bodies of stars.
O what a country this is:
Silence is its name,
And there is only pain;
There it is, filled with graves,
Some still, some moving.
O what a country this is:
A land swimming in fire,
Its people like green logs.
O how enchanting you are, Sumerian stone,
Gilgamesh still beats in your heart.
There, he is about to disembark,
Searching for life,
But his guide this time
Is nuclear dust.
We have shut the windows,
After wiping the glass with newspapers
Chronicling the invasion;
We have laid our last roses on the graves:
Where do we go?
Even the road does not believe our steps
Anymore.
II
A homeland is about to forget its name.
Why did the damask rose teach me
How to sleep in Syria's lap?
The killer has eaten the bread of song.
Poet, do not ask!
For nothing will wake this earth
Except rebellion!
London, April 1, 2003
Poems translated by Sinan Antoon