Why Did You Leave the Horse Alone?

by Mahmoud Darwish

  What will come… what will come after the ashes?

  I look scared at myself, from a distance…

  Like the balcony of a house, I look at what I will

  *

  After two days I look at my language. A brief

  Absence is enough for Aeschylus to open the door to Peace,

  A short speech is enough to incite Anthony for war

  A woman’s hand in mine

  And I embrace my freedom

  And the ebb and flow in my body begins anew

  Like the balcony of a house, I look at what I will

  I look at my ghost

  Coming

  From

  Afar…

  I.

  Icons of Local

  Crystal

  A Cloud in My Hand

  They have saddled the horses,

  They know not why,

  But they have saddled the horses in the field

  *

  …The place was ready for his birth: a hill

  Which looked east and west from the scented bushes of his ancestors

  And an olive tree

  Near an olive tree in the holy books which elevate the plains of language…

  And azure smoke which prepares the day for a question

  Which concerns only God. March is the spoiled child

  of all months. March’s snow falls like cotton on almond trees.

  March makes mallow for the court of the church

  March is a land for the night of the swallow, and for a woman

  Who prepares to cry out in the wilderness… and reaches out to the holm oaks.

  *

  Now a child is born,

  And his cry,

  Is in the crevices of the place

  *

  We parted on the steps of the house. They were saying:

  In my cry is caution which sorts ill with the frivolousness of the plants,

  In my cry is rain, did I wrong my brothers

  When I said that I had seen angels playing with the wolf

  In the courtyard of the house? I do not remember

  Their names. And also I do not remember their way

  Of talking… and of the agility of their flying

  My friends flare up by night and leave

  No trace behind them. Shall I tell my mother the truth:

  I have other brothers

  Brothers who leave a moon on my balcony

  Brothers who weave with their needle the coat of daisy

  *

  They have saddled the horses,

  They know not why,

  But they have saddled the horses at the end of the night

  *

  …Seven ripened ears suffice for Summer’s dining table.

  Seven ripened ears in my hands and in every ripened ears.

  The field germinates a field of wheat. My Father used to

  Draw water from his well and say

  To it, ‘Do not run dry’. And he would take me by the hand

  To see how I grow like purslane

  I walk on the brink of the well: I have two moons,

  One on high

  And another swimming in the water… I have two moons

  *

  Trusting, like their forebears, the righteousness

  Of the laws… they beat the iron of their swords

  Into ploughshares. ‘The sword will not mend what

  Summer has ruined’, they said. And they prayed

  Long, and sang praises to Nature…

  But they have saddled the horses,

  So as to dance the dance of horses,

  In the silver of the night…

  *

  A cloud in my hand wounds me: I do not

  Want of the Earth more than

  This Earth: the scent of cardamom and straw

  Between my father and the horse.

  In my hand a cloud wounds me, but I

  Want no more from the sun than an orange, and no more than

  Gold flowed from the words of the Call to Prayer

  *

  They have saddled the horses,

  They know not why,

  But they have saddled the horses

  At the end of the night,

  And have waited

  For a ghost to rise from the crevices of the place…

  Villagers, Without Evil…

  I did not yet know my mother’s ways, nor her people

  When the lorries came from the sea. But I had

  Known the smell of tobacco from my grandfather’s cloak

  And the eternal smell of coffee since I was born,

  As a farm-animal was born here

  One push!

  *

  We too have our cry as we fall to the brink

  Of the Earth. But we do not treasure our voices

  In ancient jars. We do not hang the mountain goat

  On the wall, we do not claim sovereignty of dust,

  And our dreams do not overlook the grapes of others,

  Or break the rule!

  *

  My name is not yet fledged, that I would jump further

  In the afternoon. The April heat was like

  The harps of our transitory visitors which makes us fly like doves.

  I have a first bell: the allure of a woman who tricks me

  Into smelling the milk on her knees; I run away

  From biting banquet at the table!

  *

  We too have our secret when the sun falls

  From the poplar trees: we are seized by the urge to weep

  For one who died for nothing, died,

  And desire carries us off to Babylon or a mosque

  In Damascus, and sheds us like a tear, amid the cooing

  Of doves, for the eternal tale of pain!

  *

  Villagers, without evil, or regret

  For words. Our names like our days are alike

  Our names do not totally identify us. We lurk

  In the talk of guests, we have things that we say

  To the outside world about the land when it embroiders its kerchief with feather

  After feather from the sky of our coming birds!

  *

  The place had no rivets stronger than the China trees

  When the lorries came from the sea. We were

  Preparing our cows’ feed in their stalls, we were arranging

  Our days in coffers of our manual work

  We were preaching love of the horse, and we were pointing

  At the vagrant star.

  *

  We too boarded the lorries. For company we had

  The emerald gleam in the night of our olive trees, and dogs barking

  At a moon passing above the church tower.

  Yet we were not afraid, for our childhood did not

  Come with us. We made do with a song: we would soon return

  Home, when the lorries discharged

  Their extra load!

  Night of the Owl

  Here is a present untouched by yesterday…

  When we arrived

  At the last of the trees, we realised we had lost our will to be conscious. And

  when we looked for the lorries, we saw absence

  Piling up its selected objects, setting up

  Its eternal tent around us…

  Here is a present

  Which is untouched by yesterday,

  Slipping away from the mulberry tree is a thread of silk

  shaping letters on the ledger of night. Nothing

  But the moths illuminate our bold

  Plunge into the pit of strange words:

  Was this wretched man my father?

  Perhaps I shall manage here. Perhaps

  I, myself, am now giving birth to myself,

  And am choosing for my name upright letters…

  *

  Here is a present

  Which sits in the space among the vessels watching

  How passers-by mar
k the reeds of the river,

  Polishing their pipes with air… Perhaps speech

  Is transparent and we look through windows that are open,

  And perhaps time hurries with us

  With our Tomorrow in its luggage…

  *

  Here is a present

  Which has no time,

  No one here has found any who remembers

  How we came out of the gate, like the wind, or at

  What time we tumbled out of yesterday, how

  Yesterday was shattered on the pavement into pieces which the others

  Fit together as looking glasses, after us…

  *

  Here is a present

  Which has no place,

  Perhaps I manage, and I cry out in

  The night of the owl: Was that wretched man

  My father, to make me bear the burden of his history?

  Perhaps I change in my name, and I choose

  My mother’s expressions and her ways, just as they ought

  To be: as if she is able to amuse me whenever salt touches my blood

  or cure me whenever I am bitten by a nightingale in the mouth!

  *

  Here is a present

  Which is passing,

  Here is where strangers hung their rifles on

  The branches of olive trees, and prepared a hasty

  Supper from metal cans, and went off

  Hurriedly to the lorries…

  The Eternity of the Prickly Pear

  Where are you taking me, Father?

  Towards the wind, my son…

  As together they came from the plain where

  Bonaparte’s troops had set up a mound to observe

  Shadows on the old wall of Acre –

  A father says to his son: Fear not, fear not the whistle of bullets! Lie flat

  In the dust to be safe! We will be safe, we will climb

  A hill to the North, and go back when

  The troops return to their own people far away.

  – And who will live in our house when we are away,

  Father?

  – It will remain just as it was,

  My son!

  He felt the key as he felt

  His limbs, and was reassured. He said to him,

  As they crossed over a thorn hedge,

  My son, remember: here is where the British crucified

  Your father on a hedge of prickly pear for two nights,

  But never did he confess. You will grow up

  My son, and will tell to those who inherit their rifles

  The account of blood inscribed over iron…

  – Why did you leave the horse alone?

  – To be company for the house, my son,

  For houses die when their inhabitants leave them…

  Eternity opens its gates, far off,

  To the stalkers of night.

  In the fallows are wolves howling at a fearful Moon. A father

  Says to his son: Be strong like your grandfather!

  Climb with me the last hill of holm oak,

  My son, remember: here is where the janissary fell

  Off the mule of war, keep with me,

  So we shall go back.

  – When, Father?

  – Tomorrow. Perhaps in two days’ time, son.

  The next day was frivolous, wind murmuring

  Behind them through the long winter nights.

  The troops of Joshua Ben Nūn were building

  A fortress from the stones of their house. They were both

  Panting for breath on the track to ‘Qana’: here is where,

  One day, Our Lord passed. Here is where

  He turned water into wine. He spoke

  Much of love. ‘My son, remember

  Tomorrow. Remember the Crusader’s fortresses

  That April’s grasses have nibbled away after

  The troops have gone…’

  How Many Times Shall Things Be Over?

  He contemplates his days in cigarette smoke,

  He looks at his pocket watch:

  If I could I would slow down its ticking

  To delay the ripening of the barley…

  He steps out from himself, exhausted, disgruntled:

  Harvest time has come,

  The wheat heads are heavy, the sickles lie idle, the land

  Is now far from its Prophet’s door.

  Lebanon’s summer speaks to me of my grapes in the south

  Lebanon’s summer speaks to me of what lies beyond nature

  But my way to God starts

  From a star in the South…

  – Are you talking to me, Father?

  – They have signed a truce on the island of Rhodes,

  My son.

  – How does that affect us, how does that affect us, Father?

  – Things are over…

  – How many times shall things be over, Father?

  – It is finished. They did their duty:

  They fought with broken rifles against the enemy’s aircraft.

  We have done our duty, we kept clear of the China tree

  So as not to disturb the Commanding Officer’s cap.

  We sold our wives’ rings so that they might hunt sparrows,

  My child!

  – So are we going to stay here, Father,

  Under the willow tree of the wind

  Between the sky and the sea?

  – My child, everything here

  Will be like something there

  By night we shall be like ourselves

  We shall be scorched by the eternal star of likeness,

  My child!

  – Father, say something to cheer me!

  – I left the window open

  To the cooing of the doves

  I left my face at the brink of the well

  I left speech

  Hanging over the cabinet rope

  To tell its tale, I left darkness

  In its night wrapped in the wool of my waiting

  I left the clouds

  On the fig tree spreading their trousers

  I left the sleep

  Renewing itself in itself

  I left peace

  Alone, there on the land…

  – Were you dreaming while I was awake, Father?

  – Get up. We will return, my child!

  To My End And to Its End…

  – Are you tired from walking

  My child, are you tired?

  – Yes, Father

  Your night on the track was long,

  And the heart flowed on the earth of your night.

  – You are still as light as a cat,

  Climb on my shoulder,

  We will soon be crossing

  The last wood of terebinth and holm oak.

  This is Northern Galilee

  Lebanon is behind us,

  The whole sky is ours from Damascus

  To the lovely walls of Acre.

  – Then what?

  – We shall go home

  Do you know the way my child?

  – Yes, Father:

  East of the carob tree on the main street

  Is a small path, hemmed in with prickly pear

  At first, then, ever wider and wider, it leads to the well,

  Then it looks out over the vineyard

  That belongs to Uncle Jamil, who sells tobacco and sweets,

  Then it loses itself in a threshing floor before

  Straightening out and settling at the house,

  in the form of a parrot.

  – Do you know the house, my child?

  – I know it as I know the path:

  Jasmine around a gate of iron,

  And bars of sunlight on the stone steps

  Sunflowers gazing into the beyond

  Tame bees preparing breakfast for grandfather

  On the rattan tray,

  And in the courtyard of the house, a well and a willow tree and a horse

  And
behind the hedge, a tomorrow, leafing through our pages…

  – Father, are you tired?

  I see sweat in your eyes.

  – My son, I am tired… Will you carry me?

  – Just as you carried me, Father,

  So shall I carry this longing

  For

  My beginnings and its beginnings,

  And I shall walk this road to

  My end… and its end!

  II.

  Abel’s Space

  The Oud of Isma’il

  A horse dancing on two strings – thus

  Do his fingers listen to his blood, and the villages are spread out

  Like red windflowers in the rhythm. No

  Night there, no day. We are touched

  By a heavenly joy, and directions rush into

  Matter

  Hallelujah

  Hallelujah

  All things will begin anew

  *

  He is the owner of the old oud, and our neighbour

  In the oak wood. He bears his time disguised

  In the garb of a madman who sings.

  The war had ended,

  And the ashes of our village, hidden by a black cloud, had not

  Witnessed the birth of the Phoenix yet, as

  We had expected. The night’s blood was not dry on

  The shirts of our dead. Crops had not sprouted, as

  Forgetfulness expects, in the helmets of the soldiers

  Hallelujah

  Hallelujah

  All things will begin anew

  *