Mahmoud Darwish - Eleven Planets At The End Of The Andalusian Scene

Eleven Planets At The End Of The Andalusian Scene

I.

On The Last Evening On This Earth

On the last evening on this earth, we sever our days
from our trees, and count the ribs we will carry along
and the ribs we will leave behind, right here . . . on the last evening
we bid nothing farewell, we don't find the time to end who we are . . .
everything remains the same, the place exchanges our dreams
and exchanges its visitors. Suddenly we are incapable of satire
since the place is ready to host the dust . . . here on the last evening
we contemplate mountains surrounding clouds: a conquest and a counterconquest
and an ancient time handing over our door keys to the new time
so enter, you conquerors, our homes and drink our wine
out of our simple muwashah. We are the night when midnight comes, no
horseman carries the dawn from the ways of the final azaan . . .
our tea is hot and green so drink it, our pistachio fresh so eat it,
and our beds are cedar green, so surrender to sleepiness
after this long siege, sleep on our dreams' feathers,
the sheets are ready, the perfume by the door is ready, and the mirrors are many
for you to enter them so we can leave them entire. In a little while
we will search for what was our history around your history in the distant lands
and ask ourselves in the end: Was the Andalus
right here or over there? On earth . . . or in the poem?

II.

How Do I Write Above The Clouds?

How do I write above the clouds my kin's will? And my kin
leave time behind as they leave their coats in the houses, and my kin
whenever they build a fortress they raze it to erect above it
a tent of longing for the early palm trees. My kin betray my kin
in wars of defending salt. But Granada is gold
and silken words embroidered with almonds, silver tears in
the oud string. Granada is for the great ascension to herself . . .
and she can be however she desires to be: the longing for
anything that has passed or will pass: a swallow's wing scratches
a woman's breast in bed, and she screams: Granada is my body.
A man loses his gazelle in the wilderness and screams: Granada is my country.
And I come from there. So sing for the sparrows to build from my ribs
a stairway to the proximal sky. Sing the gallantry of those ascending to their fate
moon by moon in the lovers' alley. Sing the birds of the garden
stone by stone. How I love you, you, who tore me
string by string on her way to her hot night . . . sing!
There is no morning for coffee's scent after you, sing my departure
from the cooing of pigeons on your knees, and from my soul's nest
in the letters of your easy name, Granada is for song, so sing!

III.

I Have Behind The Sky A Sky

I have behind the sky a sky for my return, but I
am still polishing the metal of this place, and living
an hour that foresees the unknown. I know time
will not be my ally twice, and I know I will exit
my banner as a bird that does not alight on trees in the garden.
I will exit all of my skin, and my language.
And some talk about love will descend in
Lorca poems that will live in my bedroom
and see what I have seen of the bedouin moon. I will exit
the almond trees as cotton on the brine of the sea. The stranger passed
carrying seven hundred years of horses. The stranger passed
right here, for the stranger to pass over there. I will soon exit
the wrinkles of my time as a stranger to Syria and the Andalus.
This earth is not my sky, yet this sky is my evening
and the keys are mine, the minarets are mine, the lanterns are mine, and I
am also mine. I am the Adam of two Edens, I lost them twice.
So expel me slowly,
and kill me quickly,
beneath my olive tree,
with Lorca . . .

IV.

And I Am One Of The Kings Of The End

And I am one of the kings of the end. I leap off . .
my horse in the final winter, I am the Arab's last exhalation.
I do not gaze upon the myrtles on the roofs of houses, I do not
look around in case someone here knows me
and knows that I have burnished the marble of speech for my woman
to cross barefoot over the dappled light. I do not look upon the night lest
I see a moon that used to light all of Granada's serets
one body at a time. I do not look upon the shadow lest I see
someone who carries my name and runs after me saying: Take your name
and give me the silver of white poplars. I do not look around lest
I recall I have passed over this earth, there is no earth
in this earth since time around me broke into shrapnel.
I was not a lover to believe waters are mirrors,
as I once told my old friends, and no love redeems me.
And since I have agreed to the treaty of wandering, there's no present
to help me pass near my yesterday, tomorrow. Castile will raise
her crown over G-d's minaret. I hear the keys rattle
in our history's golden door, farewell to our history. Or am I the one
to shut the sky's last door? I am the Arab's last exhalation.

V.

One Day, I Will Sit On The Sidewalk


One day, I will sit on the sidewalk . . . the stranger's sidewalk.
I was not a narcissist, still I defend my image
in mirrors. Weren't you, stranger, here one day?
Five hundred years have come and gone, and the rift between us
isn't complete, right here, the letters between us haven't ceased, and the wars
haven't changed my Granada gardens. One day I will pass by her moons
and scratch a lemon with my desire . . . Embrace me so I can be reborn
out of sun and river scents on your shoulders, out of two feet
that scratch the evening to shed milk for the poem's night . . .
I was not a passerby in the words of singers . . . I was the words
of singers, the peace of Athens and Persia, an east embracing a west
in the departure to one essence. Embrace me so I can be reborn
out of Damascene swords hanging in the shops. Nothing is left of me
but my old shield, my gilded saddle. Nothing is left of me
but an Ibn Rushd manuscript, The Collar of the Dove, and the translations . . .
I used to sit on the sidewalk in the daisy square
and count the pigeons: one, two, thirty . . . and count the young girls who
snatch the tree shadows above the marble then leave for me
the leaves of time, yellow. Autumn passed me by and I didn't notice.
All of autumn passed, and our history passed over the sidewalk . . .
and I didn't notice!

VI.

Truth Has Two Faces And The Snow Is Black

Truth has two faces and the snow is black over our city.
We are no longer capable of despairing more than we have already,
and the end walks toward the fence confident of its footsteps
on this court that is wet with tears, confident of its footsteps.
Who will lower our flags: we, or they? And who
will dictate to us "the treaty of despair," O king of dying?
Everything has been previously prepared for us, so who will tear our names
from our identities: you, or they? And who will plant in us
the speech of wandering: "We could not undo the siege
so let's hand our paradise keys to the messenger of peace, and be saved . . . "
Truth has two faces, the sacred symbol was a sword for us
and against us, what have you done with our fortress to this day?
You did not fight because you feared martyrdom, but your throne is your coffin
so carry your coffin to keep the throne, O king of waiting.
This departure will leave us like a fistful of dust . . .
Who will bury our days after us: you . . . or they? And who
will raise their banners above our walls: you . . . or
a despairing horseman? Who will hang their bells over our journey:
you . . . or a wretched guard? Everything has been previously prepared for us
so why do you prolong the ending, O king of dying?

VII.

Who Am I After The Stranger's Night

Who am I after the stranger's night? I rise from dream
frightened of the vague day over the marble of the house,
and of the sun's darkness in flowers, of my fountain's water,
frightened of the milk on the lips of figs, I am frightened
of my language, of the air combing a willow, frightened
of the clarity of dense time, and of a present no more
a present, frightened of passing by a world that isn't
my world. O despair, be mercy. O death, be
a respite for the stranger who sees the unseen clearer than
a reality no longer real. I will fall from a star
onto a tent on the road . . . to where?
Where is the road to anything? I see the unseen clearer than
a street no longer mine. Who am I after the stranger's night?
I used to walk to the self along with others, and here I am
losing the self and others. My horse on the Atlantic coast disappeared
and my horse on the Mediterranean thrusts the Crusader's spear in me.
Who am I after the stranger's night? I cannot return
to my brothers near the palm tree of my ancient house, and I cannot come down
to the bottom of my pit. O the unseen! There is no heart for love . . . no
heart for love in which I can dwell after the stranger's night . . .

VIII.

Water, Be A String To My Guitar

Water, be a string to my guitar. The new conquerors have arrived
and the old ones have gone. It's difficult to remember my face
in mirrors. Be my memory that I may see what I lost . . .
Who am I after this exodus? I have a rock
that carries my name over hills that overlook what has come
and gone . . . seven hundred years guide my funeral behind the city walls . . .
and in vain time circles to save my past from a moment
that gives birth to the history of exile in me . . . and in others . . .
Water, be a string to my guitar, the new conquerors have arrived
and the old ones have gone south as nations who renovate their days
in the rubble of transformation: I know who I was yesterday, so what
will I become tomorrow under the Atlantic banners of Columbus? Be a string,
water, be a string to my guitar. There is no Egypt in Egypt, no
Fez in Fez, and Syria is distant. And no hawk
in my kin's banner, no river east of the palm trees besieged
by quick Mongol horses. In which Andalus will I end? Right here
or over there? I will know that I perished here and left my best
behind me: my past. Nothing remains for me except my guitar,
O water, be a string to my guitar. The conquerors have gone
and the conquerors have come . . .

IX.

In Exodus I Love You More

In exodus I love you more, soon
you will lock up the city. I have no heart in your hands, no
road carries me, and in exodus I love you more.
There's no milk for our balcony's pomegranates after your breasts. The palm trees
are lighter. The weight of the hills is lighter, and the streets are lighter at dusk.
And the earth is lighter as it bids its earth farewell. And the words are lighter,
the stories lighter on the staircase of the night. But my heart is heavy.
Leave it here around your house howling and lamenting the beautiful time,
my heart is my only country, and in exodus I love you more.
I empty the soul of the last words: I love you more.
In departure the butterflies lead our souls, in departure
we recall the shirt button we lost, and forget
the crown of our days, recall the fermented apricot scent, and forget
the horse dance in our wedding nights, in departure
we are the equals of birds, we pity our days, and the little that is enough for us.
Your golden dagger making my murdered heart dance is enough for me.
So kill me, slowly, that I may say: I love you more than what
I said before this exodus. I love you. Nothing hurts me.
Not the air, and not the water . . . There is no basil in your morning, no
iris in your evening that hurts me after this departure . . .

X.

I Want From Love Only The Beginning

I want from love only the beginning, the pigeons darn
this day's dress over my Granada squares.
There's a lot of wine in the jars for a feast after us.
There are enough windows in the songs for pomegranate blossoms to explode

I leave the Arabian jasmine in the vase, I leave my little heart
in my mother's closet, I leave my dream laughing in water.
I leave the dawn in the honey of figs, I leave my day and my yesterday
in the alleyway to the orange plaza where the pigeons fly

Was I the one who descended to your feet, for speech to rise
as a white moon in your nights' milk . . . Stomp the air
for me to see the street of the flute blue . . . Stomp the evening
for me to see how marble falls ill between me and you

The windows are empty of your shawl's gardens. In a different time
I used to know a lot about you, and pick gardenias
off your ten fingers. In a different time, I had pearls
around your neck, and a name on a ring illuminating darkness

I want from love only the beginning, the pigeons flew
over the sky's last ceiling, the pigeons flew and flew.
A lot of wine will remain, after us, in the jars
and a bit of land is enough for us to meet, and for peace to arrive

XI.

The Violins

The violins cry with gypsies going to the Andalus
The violins cry over Arabs leaving the Andalus

The violins cry over a lost time that doesn't return
The violins cry over a lost country that might return

The violins burn the forests of the faraway darkness
The violins bleed the vastness, and smell the blood in my veins

The violins cry with gypsies going to the Andalus
The violins cry over Arabs leaving the Andalus

The violins are horses on a string of mirage, and on moaning water
The violins are a field of savage lilacs swaying near and far

The violins are a monster that a woman's fingernail tortures
The violins are an army building a cemetery of marble and nahawand

The violins are the chaos of hearts maddened by wind in the dancer's foot
The violins are flocks of birds that flee the lacking banner

The violins are the grievance of wrinkled silk in the lovers' night
The violins are the distant sound of wine over a previous desire

The violins follow me, here and there, to take revenge on me
The violins search for me to kill me, wherever they may find me

The violins cry over Arabs leaving the Andalus
The violins cry with gypsies going to the Andalus