Adonis: Reading at The Prague Writers' Festival

The Desert



1

The killer
In the air
Swims in the city's wound—
The wound is the fall
That shakes with its name
With its bleeding name
Everything around us.
The houses leave their walls
And I am
Not I



2

Trees bow to say goodbye
Flowers open, glow, lower their leaves to say goodbye,
Roads like pauses between the breathing and the words say goodbye,
A body wears hope, falls in a wilderness to say goodbye,
The papers that love ink,
The alphabet, the poets say goodbye,
And the poem says goodbye.



3

You will see
Say his name
Say I painted his face
Stretch your hand to him
Or walk like any man
Or smile
Or say I was once sad
You will see
There is no homeland..



4

They found people in sacks:
One without a head
One without a tongue or hands
One squashed
The rest without names.
Have you gone mad? Please,
Do not write about these things.



5

He wrote in a poem (I don't know where the road begins—
and how to surrender my forehead to its rays)
He wrote in a poem (how can I convince him my future is a desert
and my blood its mirage of sand?)
He wrote in a poem (who will shake the hardness of words off me?)
He wrote in a poem (you don't belong
if you don't kill a brother...)
He wrote in a poem (what's going to happen is not what they expect
and contrary to what's been thought...)
He wrote in a poem (how can we understand this fugitive language
caught between the truth and the poem?)
He wrote in a poem (can the refugee moon embrace its candle?)
He wrote in a poem (there's confusion
between the sun's face and the sky)
He wrote in a poem (... /let him die...



6

He shuts the door
Not to trap his joy
... But to free his grief.



7

I expect death to come at night
To cushion his lap with
A rose—
I'm tired of the dust covering the forehead of dawn
I'm tired of the breathing of people.



8

From the palm wine to the calmness of the desert... etc.
From a morning that smuggles its stomach
And sleeps on the shoulders of the refugees ... etc.
From the streets, army vehicles,
Concentration of troops ... etc.
From the shadows of men, women... etc.
From bombs stuffed with the blood of Muslims
and infidels ... etc.
From the flesh of iron that bleeds
and sweats pus ... etc.
From the fields that long for the wheat, the green and the workers... etc.
From castles walling our bodies
And bombarding us with darkness... etc.
From the myths of the dead which speak of
life—express life... etc.
From the speech which is the slaughter, the slaughtered
and the slaughterers... etc.
From the dark dark dark
I breathe, feel my body—search for you and him,
myself and others.

I hung my death
Between my face and these bleeding words... etc.



9

The night descends (these are the papers he gave to the ink-
morning's ink that never came)
The night descends on the bed (the bed of the
lover who never came)
The night descends/not a sound (clouds. Smoke)
The night descends (someone had in his hands rabbits? Ants?)
The night descends (the wall of the building shakes. All the
curtains are transparent)
The night descends, listens (the stars as the night knows are
dumb,
and the last trees at the end of the
wall remember nothing of what the air
said to their branches)
The night descends (the wind whispers to the windows)
The night descends (the light penetrates. A neighbour lies
in his nakedness)
The night descends (two people. A dress holding a dress—
and the windows are transparent)
The night descends (this is a whim: the moon complains to his
trousers
about what the lovers have always complained of)
The night descends (he relaxes in a pitcher
filled with wine. No friends
just one man turning in his glass)
The night descends (carries a few spiders, feels at ease with
insects which are a pest only to houses/
signs of light: an angel coming, missiles
or an invitation? Our women neighbours have
gone on pilgrimage/come back less slim
and more coquettish)
The night descends (enters between the breasts of the days/
our women neighbours are my days).
The night descends (that sofa/that pillow: this is an alleyway,
this is a place).
The night descends (what shall we prepare? Wine? Soup and bread?
The night hides from us his stomach's appetite).
The night descends (plays for a short while with his snails, with
strange doves which came from an unknown land,
and with the insects not mentioned in the
chapters of the book about reproduction among
different animal species)
The night descends (thunder—or is it the noise of angels coming
on their horses?)
The night descends (mumbling
turning in his glass...)



10

The moon always wears
A stone helmet
To fight its own shadows.



11

The door of my house is closed.
Darkness is a blanket:
A pale moon comes with
A handful of light
My words fail
To convey my gratitude.


Read at Prague Wednesday 10 June, 2009

Translated from the Arabic by Samuel Hazo
Published by The Marlboro Press, 2000