حسن حجازى
18/08/2007, 12:41 PM
The Great
Romanian poet
Marius Chelaru
In the memory of those who died and they are dying each and every moment in Baghdad, Kabul, New York, Madrid, London, in Transnistria, Chechnya and everywhere in the World, killed by hate, intolerance, terrorism and by a politic of war and interests who has nothing to do with our life
Bagdad (Baġdād)
„…it was named the Garden of Delights, and in its center rising the Palace of Marvels, ruled by Harūn al-Rašīd … The whole palace was an entire huge hall, with 24 windows, opened only when he arrived”.
The Book of One Thousand and One Nights
(Kitāb 'Alf Layla wa-Layla)
*
On a path of the history
one day
that God folded it as if it were a handkerchief
embroidered it with bulbul song thread
and kept it near the heart of the poetry
that day
just when unburned unborn Scheherazade
with a story
(which was to begin
at a life’s distance
from the moment when the khalif Mansur
showed where they should build the fortress)
the war slumbered
almost as much as a eyelid beat
or a heart whisper,
that day
there was born a dream named
Madīnat al-Salām
as suckling hour
kicks the dying one
ravenous, time gnawed
with teeth made of from blood and crushed poems
by swords blunted in so many wars
the bricks of Al Khuld Palace
changing them into dust
stirred today by rackets
killing over and over again
and in their fly
birds of Death
wounding Haven and Earth
and the sad shadow of Harūn al-Rašīd
with eyes of blood and eyelashes of hatred
Tiger’s waters scan
The Heaven
which some time ago used to smile
at beautiful ladies from the Garden of Delights - some time ago being just like those from Jannah -
long ago
when time meant poetry also
the Moon stopped to rest on the roof
of the Palace of Marvels
the very place where the flower beds
were drawing Arabian poems
recited by the night fires
by wanderers, travelers, warriors
and stars
today resounds because of wails only
over there where trees
circled with precious metals
with emeralds incorporated
with leaves gilded with gold and silver
there where the Sun was bathing
in lakes and brooks made with plenty toil,
then shuffling with its rays
on the footbridges
made of wood
grown in the far and legendary countries,
over there where stars would caress in sweet love nights
young couples in divine pavilions,
and cypresses that were covering
the lakes on which water lilies wrote the calligraphy of a verse,
today bullets are running
to crumble life
the kings of Babilon
together with all the written or dreamed
poems
today
died over and over again
poetry is crying with tears from bodies:
bodies of young Americans and Arabs
dead
in the name of a cause
more and more difficult to puzzle out
in a corner of time
in an old tirāz
where shreds/ tatters of a dilapidated poem
are lying in a corner
belonging to the forgotten khalifs’ clothes
bombs are weaving the death sheets for them
the cries of the soldiers from everywhere
escaping from death
on the streets paved with memories
on which even the words are stepping down crookedly
get entangled with the wind’s clothes
woven out of blood,
bullets,
out of cries of the mothers of all those killed young men,
out of the dust carried over the centuries – what remained
from the pages of the books
that used to spread light in Dar al-Hikma
now
from the lips of the letters of that poem
named Bagdad
blood is dripping
each bayt of this poem seems even for Heaven
worn out, discolored,
made of words slatternly walking down
the poem named Bagdad
breathes hatred and smoke
death and hatred
but it still has clothes patched with memories
named
Al-Khalil
Sibawaih
Mubarrad
Al-Thalaby
Ibn Hanbal
Ibn Al- Muqaffa’,
Al-KHorezmi – whose thoughts were wandering between stars
Abū Nuwās
Al-Kindi
Dawūd al-Isfahāni
Ibn Kutayba
Al-Buhturi
Abū Hanīfa
and so many others
now
their shadows
are trembling shedding tearing in the ash of this day
when children die
in bomb-cars attacks…
instead of
al-Madrasa al-Nizamīyya
or Al-Madrasa al-Mustansirīya
today the street is The School
where children learn to survive
in a war they don’t understand
their parents
are hanged on the cross of life
from words with fake meanings
in Bagdad
angels are crying
and their tears
can not wash the blood flowing towards the sky
from the roof of Marjan Mosque
Bagdad
A poem crying with children-tears
With men-tears, with women-tears
Bagdad
today
a word prisoner in a tear
hung on the necklace of Ares
near Hiroshima, Stalingrad, Carthagena
and between the fingers of the unmerciful god
which
pity you!
resembles The Twin Towers
killed by hatred and with no sense at all
there is flowing on the river of futility
the life of those who could love
could read the poem named Bagdad
from the lips of love
with a lifelike scented body
On a path of the history
this day
which God folded as a handkerchief
woven out of with a bullets song
and kept it near the heart of a child
killed before knowing what poetry is
while in Heaven
Scheherazade is crushing
under her azure eyelashes the stories
(which are to be killed
as the soldier’s finger pulls the trigger
showing where death should build her fortress)
the war
that grinds
each day
each hour
each moment
the dream used to be named
Madīnat al-Salām
cannot fall asleep anymore
*
all around everything
is only noise and smoke
…..
the child
closes his eyes
threading his way along a path beyond reality
in the corner of the closed eye of that day from his dream
the merchant of smiles
offers him a story as a gift
raises his arms with a smile
on which white roses are in buds
he stretches them as far as the dawn
he goes for a walk
with his the fingers of his heart
between the deceased people in his family album
memories
wrapped in veils made from a bulbul fly
have a rest somewhere
in a moment hidden in a tear
……
everything around
is only cry and death
the car is crashing into the pavement
mangled bodies mix themselves forgetting hatred
this day is leaning against the shoulder of sadness
the child
can hardly open his eyes
his leg are dangling like a dirty piece of laundry
the moments
are sticking on his fingers
trying to stay
now
in this moment that lasts for a lifetime
the day gives off a maiden like perfume
the child
is drawing something unseen
with his blood-stained fingers
the horizon eyelashes
struggles for him for the last time
from the tree crushed by the bomb-car
a leaf with small blood veins
is sliding towards his lips
and covers his thirsty soul
for a single moment
as it remains on his tired eyelashes
he is soaring to the sky
on the same side of the thought with the merchant of dreams
that he forgot in a childhood scented evening –
yesterday evening
the twilight
is falling down upon the town like a coat in shreds
the passers by
watch the corpses spread along the pavement
they still have
the job of mortals
they inherit the day of tomorrow
still
*
on the sidewalk
at the door of the mosque
a blood spot
and a dry rose stay together
two steps away
two young soldiers
watching the sunset
wait for
another bomb-car
somewhere
maybe in the States
a mother with her eyes towards the Heaven
wondering why are all these
trembles before switching on the TV
- her son hasn’t written to her since yesterday
On a path of the history
one day
that God folded it as if it were a handkerchief
embroidered it with a bulbul song thread
and kept it near the heart of the poetry
among cries
bombs and hatred
the poem-flower named Bagdad
- “Garden of God” -
is crying and blossoming in the dust of the history
Romanian poet
Marius Chelaru
In the memory of those who died and they are dying each and every moment in Baghdad, Kabul, New York, Madrid, London, in Transnistria, Chechnya and everywhere in the World, killed by hate, intolerance, terrorism and by a politic of war and interests who has nothing to do with our life
Bagdad (Baġdād)
„…it was named the Garden of Delights, and in its center rising the Palace of Marvels, ruled by Harūn al-Rašīd … The whole palace was an entire huge hall, with 24 windows, opened only when he arrived”.
The Book of One Thousand and One Nights
(Kitāb 'Alf Layla wa-Layla)
*
On a path of the history
one day
that God folded it as if it were a handkerchief
embroidered it with bulbul song thread
and kept it near the heart of the poetry
that day
just when unburned unborn Scheherazade
with a story
(which was to begin
at a life’s distance
from the moment when the khalif Mansur
showed where they should build the fortress)
the war slumbered
almost as much as a eyelid beat
or a heart whisper,
that day
there was born a dream named
Madīnat al-Salām
as suckling hour
kicks the dying one
ravenous, time gnawed
with teeth made of from blood and crushed poems
by swords blunted in so many wars
the bricks of Al Khuld Palace
changing them into dust
stirred today by rackets
killing over and over again
and in their fly
birds of Death
wounding Haven and Earth
and the sad shadow of Harūn al-Rašīd
with eyes of blood and eyelashes of hatred
Tiger’s waters scan
The Heaven
which some time ago used to smile
at beautiful ladies from the Garden of Delights - some time ago being just like those from Jannah -
long ago
when time meant poetry also
the Moon stopped to rest on the roof
of the Palace of Marvels
the very place where the flower beds
were drawing Arabian poems
recited by the night fires
by wanderers, travelers, warriors
and stars
today resounds because of wails only
over there where trees
circled with precious metals
with emeralds incorporated
with leaves gilded with gold and silver
there where the Sun was bathing
in lakes and brooks made with plenty toil,
then shuffling with its rays
on the footbridges
made of wood
grown in the far and legendary countries,
over there where stars would caress in sweet love nights
young couples in divine pavilions,
and cypresses that were covering
the lakes on which water lilies wrote the calligraphy of a verse,
today bullets are running
to crumble life
the kings of Babilon
together with all the written or dreamed
poems
today
died over and over again
poetry is crying with tears from bodies:
bodies of young Americans and Arabs
dead
in the name of a cause
more and more difficult to puzzle out
in a corner of time
in an old tirāz
where shreds/ tatters of a dilapidated poem
are lying in a corner
belonging to the forgotten khalifs’ clothes
bombs are weaving the death sheets for them
the cries of the soldiers from everywhere
escaping from death
on the streets paved with memories
on which even the words are stepping down crookedly
get entangled with the wind’s clothes
woven out of blood,
bullets,
out of cries of the mothers of all those killed young men,
out of the dust carried over the centuries – what remained
from the pages of the books
that used to spread light in Dar al-Hikma
now
from the lips of the letters of that poem
named Bagdad
blood is dripping
each bayt of this poem seems even for Heaven
worn out, discolored,
made of words slatternly walking down
the poem named Bagdad
breathes hatred and smoke
death and hatred
but it still has clothes patched with memories
named
Al-Khalil
Sibawaih
Mubarrad
Al-Thalaby
Ibn Hanbal
Ibn Al- Muqaffa’,
Al-KHorezmi – whose thoughts were wandering between stars
Abū Nuwās
Al-Kindi
Dawūd al-Isfahāni
Ibn Kutayba
Al-Buhturi
Abū Hanīfa
and so many others
now
their shadows
are trembling shedding tearing in the ash of this day
when children die
in bomb-cars attacks…
instead of
al-Madrasa al-Nizamīyya
or Al-Madrasa al-Mustansirīya
today the street is The School
where children learn to survive
in a war they don’t understand
their parents
are hanged on the cross of life
from words with fake meanings
in Bagdad
angels are crying
and their tears
can not wash the blood flowing towards the sky
from the roof of Marjan Mosque
Bagdad
A poem crying with children-tears
With men-tears, with women-tears
Bagdad
today
a word prisoner in a tear
hung on the necklace of Ares
near Hiroshima, Stalingrad, Carthagena
and between the fingers of the unmerciful god
which
pity you!
resembles The Twin Towers
killed by hatred and with no sense at all
there is flowing on the river of futility
the life of those who could love
could read the poem named Bagdad
from the lips of love
with a lifelike scented body
On a path of the history
this day
which God folded as a handkerchief
woven out of with a bullets song
and kept it near the heart of a child
killed before knowing what poetry is
while in Heaven
Scheherazade is crushing
under her azure eyelashes the stories
(which are to be killed
as the soldier’s finger pulls the trigger
showing where death should build her fortress)
the war
that grinds
each day
each hour
each moment
the dream used to be named
Madīnat al-Salām
cannot fall asleep anymore
*
all around everything
is only noise and smoke
…..
the child
closes his eyes
threading his way along a path beyond reality
in the corner of the closed eye of that day from his dream
the merchant of smiles
offers him a story as a gift
raises his arms with a smile
on which white roses are in buds
he stretches them as far as the dawn
he goes for a walk
with his the fingers of his heart
between the deceased people in his family album
memories
wrapped in veils made from a bulbul fly
have a rest somewhere
in a moment hidden in a tear
……
everything around
is only cry and death
the car is crashing into the pavement
mangled bodies mix themselves forgetting hatred
this day is leaning against the shoulder of sadness
the child
can hardly open his eyes
his leg are dangling like a dirty piece of laundry
the moments
are sticking on his fingers
trying to stay
now
in this moment that lasts for a lifetime
the day gives off a maiden like perfume
the child
is drawing something unseen
with his blood-stained fingers
the horizon eyelashes
struggles for him for the last time
from the tree crushed by the bomb-car
a leaf with small blood veins
is sliding towards his lips
and covers his thirsty soul
for a single moment
as it remains on his tired eyelashes
he is soaring to the sky
on the same side of the thought with the merchant of dreams
that he forgot in a childhood scented evening –
yesterday evening
the twilight
is falling down upon the town like a coat in shreds
the passers by
watch the corpses spread along the pavement
they still have
the job of mortals
they inherit the day of tomorrow
still
*
on the sidewalk
at the door of the mosque
a blood spot
and a dry rose stay together
two steps away
two young soldiers
watching the sunset
wait for
another bomb-car
somewhere
maybe in the States
a mother with her eyes towards the Heaven
wondering why are all these
trembles before switching on the TV
- her son hasn’t written to her since yesterday
On a path of the history
one day
that God folded it as if it were a handkerchief
embroidered it with a bulbul song thread
and kept it near the heart of the poetry
among cries
bombs and hatred
the poem-flower named Bagdad
- “Garden of God” -
is crying and blossoming in the dust of the history