Translated by Abdul Monem Nasser
Edited by Mark Pirie
Wrap yourself in your aspirations,
and make a throne of your solitude.
Here it is: your regression protracting …
You lisp in innocence
that is chased by the guns of alien cities.
O, you, filled with trees and birds,
in your fingers tweeting notes are heard
and your heartbeats are prayers for Tammuz of Babylonia.
A policeman in the guise of a poet
is striving to drive into your dreams
blind dust and the croaks of frogs,
mastering only scheming and betrayal,
masticating them like spinsters
whose radiance has since vanished behind bashful horizons.
A General, taking the form of an employer,
is imposing on you the language of exile
and the odour of barracks;
the barracks are but ashes that usher your éclat.
Did I not say, Here it is: your regression protracting?
And between you and the minarets are
memories, oceans and invading armies.
The land of dark palms no longer
extends to you its fronds, its Gilgamesh;
nor does the whenua offer you its Kiwi, its tranquillity.
O, you, the Sumerian!
the Lion of Earth
has robbed you of your glories,
those glories that you’ve piled on your pillow.
You say: Daytime is slavery
that dips its fangs in the mouth of hours;
so, dance on your corpse till the end of illusion.
Enough! O, you, the ancient one,
the son of Black banners and palms
stained with waiting,
lament your joy;
it is shrouded in robes of mourning.
In the fullest sense: rebuke your past,
while your coming days
wear the clothes of your Blackness shabbily.
Edited by Mark Pirie
Wrap yourself in your aspirations,
and make a throne of your solitude.
Here it is: your regression protracting …
You lisp in innocence
that is chased by the guns of alien cities.
O, you, filled with trees and birds,
in your fingers tweeting notes are heard
and your heartbeats are prayers for Tammuz of Babylonia.
A policeman in the guise of a poet
is striving to drive into your dreams
blind dust and the croaks of frogs,
mastering only scheming and betrayal,
masticating them like spinsters
whose radiance has since vanished behind bashful horizons.
A General, taking the form of an employer,
is imposing on you the language of exile
and the odour of barracks;
the barracks are but ashes that usher your éclat.
Did I not say, Here it is: your regression protracting?
And between you and the minarets are
memories, oceans and invading armies.
The land of dark palms no longer
extends to you its fronds, its Gilgamesh;
nor does the whenua offer you its Kiwi, its tranquillity.
O, you, the Sumerian!
the Lion of Earth
has robbed you of your glories,
those glories that you’ve piled on your pillow.
You say: Daytime is slavery
that dips its fangs in the mouth of hours;
so, dance on your corpse till the end of illusion.
Enough! O, you, the ancient one,
the son of Black banners and palms
stained with waiting,
lament your joy;
it is shrouded in robes of mourning.
In the fullest sense: rebuke your past,
while your coming days
wear the clothes of your Blackness shabbily.
