What would we be left with, really
if we lock ourselves in the very panic-stricken room
and we were always, terrified
of being tempted?
How do we recognise the evil one, then?
so that we can recognise him
in the parade of criminals?
When you eat, beyond the limits of satiety
not thinking of the many who have gone hungry for your food.
When you buy ten shirts, just to brighten up the wardrobe, no more
knowing that you will not wear them, probably.
and the others are naked.
When you set the house on fire to chase away a scrawny mouse
that only wanted the crumbs from your table
Spit into the well
throw your sins into the river
And steal age and shade from the good tree of childhood.
And when you tuck the moon into your coat
And you want the sea, all of it, for yourself
Or you kill, for nothing but your desire
Or to break the monotony
and annihilate a whole family to avenge the little one who doesn’t know you.
as precautions.
and perform surgery to remove your conscience
so that you may sleep in peace.
You can be very proud, then.
as you comfortably declare your belonging
to the human world
Lazy Damascus sleeps quietly.
The sky is a sleepy azure, and Barada River slips thinly into the pink suburbs.
Water and air, and the voices of the vendors in Hamidiyeh laugh, as in a film by Haytham Haqqi, but the colours resemble Najdat Anzour.
On a stone of Qasioun, the neighbourhoods of Damascus sleep: Qeshani baths and children who sing ”Bladi Bladi” in the morning.
Duraid Lahham is at the Sham Hotel, and Al-Maghut is late for a celestial soiree and hasn’t returned yet.
Assaad Feddah asks Mona Wassef about the scene of Al-Khansa that she asked the director to delete, and Bashar Zarqan discusses a new melody in which the horse does not fall off the poem, nor does he fall off the horse’s back.
Nizar Qabbani makes jasmine tea for Bilquis and asks her, as he always does, like a gentleman: Did you like the tea?
On a stone, Ibn Arabi finishes his revelations, by the light of the moon, and waits for the evening dervishes.
Did Abu Dharr sit here, asking passers-by for a sword to wield in the face of hunger?
And was Al-Nawab in Havana as usual, singing about the songs of passion, flirting with pitchers and fragile women, shivering in the cold and darkness?
On a stone, Damascus sleeps.
Ismail Nusrat prepares for a new exhibition, if he lives, Aajjaj al-Hakim puts folkloric music in the record player and smiles like a child, Ajlouni does not offer ”shinglish” as appetisers, and Barada sleeps early like polite rivers.
And the sky outside rains some bombs, demolishes some houses...
and kills some of the children
The bullets are not enough
For freedom to hide behind the tree
And the tree is not enough to hide it, if it wishes
For the purposes of evasion
Nor is the water enough to drown it
Nor does the earth bury it.
O fire, be cold and peaceful if you like
For you are not really enough
to burn it.
Osama Gad is a poet and editor from Egypt.
