The Rain

Don't hint, say it like a thunderbolt.

يقولونَ إني كالبدرِ بَهجةً وأنَّ الجمالَ بوجهيَ ارتَسما

يحيطُ بي المدحُ مثلَ الهَواءِ ولكنَّ ذاتي تُرددُ: "لا" نَسَما

يأتونَ خاطبينَ، وبالعَينِ شَوقُ كأنّي كنزٌ على الدربِ مُبتَغى

وأسمعُ ألفاظَ ثَناءٍ تُقالُ كأنّي لؤلؤةٌ لا تُضاهى سَنا

ولكنَّ نفسي – غريبةُ دربي – كأنّي ظِلٌّ بلا نَورِه اتّقَدا

كأنَّ المرآةَ تُخفي حقيقتي وتُظهرُ وجهاً غريبًا عني بدا

فهل في المرايا كَذبٌ خَفيٌّ؟ أمِ العيبُ في العينِ إذ لم تَرَ الصَفا؟

أجيبوا سؤالاً سَكنَّي طويلاً لماذا الجمالُ إذا لم يُصدَّقا؟

Granada

At the entrance of Alhambra was our meeting, How sweet is a rendezvous not thought of before. Two soft black eyes in perfect frames enticing, Generating after-effects from the past ages afore. Are you a Spaniard? I asked her enquiring, She said: Granada is the city where I was born. Granada! Seven centuries awoke from slumbering, In her eyes, after the clothing of sleep they wore. And Umayyad, with flags lifted high, flying, Their horses streaming by, unnumbered they pour. How strange is history, how is it to me returning? A beautiful granddaughter, from my pedigree of yore. With a Damascene face, through it I was seeing, The eyelids of Sheba and the neck of Suad once more. I saw a room in our old house with a clearing, Where mother used to spread my cushions on the floor. And the Jasmine inlaid in its stars were shining, With the golden singing pool, a picture of splendor. Damascus, where is it? I said: you will be seeing It in your flowing hair, a river of golden black ore. In your Arab face, in your mouth still storing The suns of my country from the days of Arab lore. In the perfume of Generalife with waters gleaming, Its Arabian Jasmine, its sweet basil and citron odour. She came with me and her hair behind her flowing, Like luscious ears of grain in an unharvested meadow. The long earrings on her neck were glittering, Like Christmas Eve candles that sparkle and glow. Behind her like a child I walked, she was guiding, And behind me, history, piles of ashes row after row. The decoration of Alhambra I almost hear pulsing, And the ornaments on the roof, I hear their call grow. She said: Alhambra! Pride of my ancestors glowing, Read on its walls my glories that shine and show. Her glory! I anointed an open wound festering, And in my heart anointed another that refused to go. If only my lovely granddaughter had a way of knowing, The ones she meant were my ancestors of long, long ago. When I bid her adieu, when I knew I was going, I embraced in her Ṭāriq ibn Ziyād, that Arab hero.

-Nizar Qabbani

Desteğe olan ihtiyacınız arttıkça etrafınızdaki omuzlar yavaş yavaş kaybolur

"Yorgunluğumu tüm geniş omuzlardan çıkardım

ve başımı arabanın camına yaslamayı seçtim."

The color orange and the sunset, The rope and suicide, The glass and the wound, The ocean and drowning, Autumn and farewell, The mirror and me, The windows and staring, The hand waving from afar, The road and the sudden encounter.

Paintings by: Lili Wood

Fairuz

Does the world escape me like a void?

Have I given up on illusions? Heavy nights train me And the rain of melodies were epics I became aware of war after war The sound of the sword inspired and inspired me! I search my halls and call out To me, to me, O formulated dream

-Sakaina Al-sharif