She’s not coming, 

and she never will,

I’ll go about the rest of our evening,

with what best suits my failures, 

and her absence. 

Blowing out the candles I lit for her,

 and flicking on the lights,

Swallowing the glass of wine I poured for her, 

and shattering it.

And replacing the inviting ballads of violins,

 with Persian hymns,

‘She’s not coming.’

I’ll loosen the careful knots tied around my neck,

 to find some sort of relief,

Wear blue pajamas, 

walk barefoot if I so chose, 

sit slouched with my feet on her sofa,

And forget all about her,

And all that ever was. 

I returned the things I prepared for her arrival back to their drawers,

And opened up every window and every curtain,

None of my secrets remain veiled from the night,

Except what I waited for, and what I lost.

I scoffed at my own craze and naivety,

Having cleaned the very air for her sake, 

spritzing it with lemons and roses.

‘She’s not coming.’

I’ll move her orchids out of spite of her forgetfulness and neglect,

And cover the mirrors with coats to conceal her reflection and my followed remorse,

I’ll forget what I used to seek from her through reciting those antique lines,

Because she isn’t deserving of ancient poems, not even fabricated ones.

So I forgot about her.

And stood as I ate my thrown-together meal,

And read a chapter, from a school textbook,

 about our distant planets,

Then began to write, 

To forget the pains she brought,

A poem,

This poem. 

لَمْ تَأْتِ

قُلْتُ: وَلنْ...إذاً

سَأُعِيْدُ تَرْتِيْبَ المَسَاءِ

بِمَا يَلِيْقُ بِخَيْبَتِي

وَغِيَابِهَا

أَطْفَـأْتُ نَارَ شُمُوْعِهَا

أَشْعَلْتُ نُوْرَ الكَهْرَبَاءِ

شَرِبْتُ كَأْسَ نَبِيْذِهَا

وَكَسَرْتُهُ

أَبْدَلْتُ مُوْسِيْقَى الكَمَنْجَاتِ السَّرِيْعَةِ

بِالأَغَانِي الفَارِسِيَّةِ

.قُلْتُ: لَنْ تَأتِي

سَأَنْضُو رَبْطَةَ العُنُقِ الأَنِيْقَةِ

[هَكَذَا أَرْتَاحُ أَكْثَرْ]

أَرْتَدِي بِيْجَامَةً زَرْقَاءْ

أَمْشِي حَافِياً لَوْ شِئتُ

أَجْلِسُ بِارْتِخَاءِ القُرْفُصَاءِ عَلَى أَرِيْكَتِهَا

فَأَنْسَاهَا

.وَأَنْسَى كُلَّ أَشْيَاءِ الغِيَابْ

أَعَدْتُ مَا أَعْدَدْتُ مِنْ أَدَوَاتِ حَفْلَتِنَا إِلَى أَدْرَاجِهَا

وَفَتَحْتُ كُلَّ نَوَافِذِي وَسَتَائِرِي

لَا سِرَّ فِي جَسَدِي أَمَامَ اللَيْلِ

إِلاَّ مَا انْتَظَرْتُ وَمَا خَسِرْتُ

سَخِرْتُ مِنْ هَوَسِي

بِتَنْظِيْفِ الهَوَاءِ لِأَجْلِهَا

[عَطَّرْتُهُ بِرِذَاذِ مَاءِ الوَرْدِ وَاللَيْمُوْن]

.لَنْ تَأْتِي

سَأَنْقُلُ زَهْرَةَ الأُوْرْكِيْدِ مِنْ جِهَةِ اليَمِيْنِ إِلَى اليَسَارِ لِكَيْ أُعَاقِبَهَا عَلَى نِسْيَانِهَا

غَطَّيْتُ مِرْآةَ الجِدَارِ بِمِعْطَفٍ كَيْ لَا أََرَى إِشْعَاعَ صُوْرَتِهَا... فَأَنْدَمْ

قُلْتُ: أَنْسَى مَا اقْتَبَسْتُ لَهَا مِنْ الغَزَلِ القَدِيْمِ

لِأَنَّهَا لَا تَسْتَحِقُّ قَصِيْدَةً حَتَّى وَلَوْ مَسْرُوْقَةً

.وَنَسِيْتُهَا

وَأَكَلْتُ وَجْبَتِي السَّرِيْعَةَ وَاقِفاً

وَقَرَأْتُ فَصْلاً مِنْ كِتَابٍ مَدْرَسِيٍّ

عَنْ كَوَاكِبِنَا البَعِيْدَةْ

وَكَتَبْتُ

كَيْ أَنْسَى إِسَاءَتَهَا

قَصِيْدَةً

.هَذِي القَصِيْدَةْ

Violins weep with gypsies waning towards andalusia,

Violins weep for nameless arabs drifting from andalusia,

.

Violins lament a forgotten past that does not return,

Violins lament a lost homeland that might return.

.

Violins set fire to the darkness of those weary woods,

Violins gash apart the horizon and smell the blood in my veins, 

.

Violins weep for nameless arabs drifting from andalusia,

Violins weep with gypsies waning towards andalusia,

.

Violins are horses on the howling strings of a floating mirage,

Violins are fields of empty lilacs, bending where and back,

.

Violins are monsters deceived by the kiss of a maiden now distant,

Violins are soldiers erecting tombs with marble and Nahawand,

.

Violins are the anguished hearts ruffled by the winds of dancer’s step,

Violins are the flock of birds fleeing from a tattered banner,

.

Violins are unsettled silk creased in a lovers night,

Violins are the echoes of spilled wine on ebbing thirsts,

.

Violins are the shadows of an incessant vengeance, 

Violins hunt me to slay me wherever they [may] find me,

.

Violins mourn the nameless arabs drifting from andalusia,

Violins mourn with gypsies waning towards andalusia.

الكَمَنجاتُ تَبْكي مَعَ الغَجَرِ الذَّاهِبِينَ إِلى الأنْدَلسْ

الكَمَنجاتُ تَبْكي عَلى العَرَبِ الْخَارِجِينَ مِنَ الأنْدلُسْ

.

الكَمَنجاتُ تَبْكي عَلى زَمَنٍ ضائعٍ لا يَعودْ

الكَمَنجاتُ تَبْكي عَلى وَطَنٍ ضائعٍ قَدْ يَعودْ

.

الكَمَنجاتُ تُحْرقُ غَاباتِ ذَاكَ الظلَامِ الْبعيدْ

الكَمَنجاتُ تدْمي الْمُدى، وَتَشُمُّ دَمِى في الْوريدْ

.

الكَمَنجاتُ تَبْكي عَلى الْعَرَب الْخارِجِينَ منَ الأَنْدلُسْ

الكَمَنجاتُ تَبْكي مَعَ الْغَجِر الذَّاهبينَ إِلى الأَنْدَلُسْ

.

الكَمَنجاتُ خَيْلٌ على وَتَرٍ مِنْ سَرَابٍ ومَاءٍ يَئنُّ

الكَمَنجاتُ حَقْلٌ مِنَ اللَّيْلكِ الْمُتَوَحِّشِ يَنْأَى وَيَدْنو

.

الكَمَنجاتُ وَحْشٌ يُعَذِّبُهُ ظُفْرُ سَيِّدَةً مَسَّهُ، وابْتَعَدْ

الكَمَنجاتُ جَيْشٌ يُعَمِّرُ مَقْبَرَةً منْ رُخامٍ ومِنْ نَهَوَنْدْ

.

الكَمَنجاتُ فَوْضَى قُلوبٍ تُجنِّنُها الرِّيحُ فِي قَدَمِ الرَّاقِصَةْ

الكَمَنجاتُ أْسْرابُ طيْرٍ تَفِرُّ مِنَ الرَّايَةِ النَّاقِصَةْ

.

الكَمَنجاتُ شَكْوَى الْحَرِيرِ المُجَعِّدِ فِى لَيْلَةِ الْعَاشِقَةْ

الكَمَنجاتُ صَوْتُ النَّبِيْذِ الْبَعِيْدِ عَلى رَغْبَةٍ سابِقَةْ

.

الكَمَنجاتُ تَتْبعُني هَهُنا وهُنَاك لِتَثْأَرَ مِنِّي

الكَمَنجاتُ تَبْحَثُ عَنِّى لِتَقْتُلَنِي، أَيْنَما وَجَدتْني

.

الكَمَنجاتُ تَبْكي عَلى الْعَربِ الْخَارِجِينَ مِنَ الأَندلُسْ

الكَمَنجاتُ تَبْكي مَعَ الغَجَرِ الذَّاهِبِيْنَ إِلى الأنْدَلُسْ

Rejoicing in something unseen,

I used to embrace the morning with the fervor of songs,

Rejoicing in something unseen,

I used to embrace the morning with the fervor of songs,

Walking contently with my sins,

Walking contently with my dreams,

Inspiration calls out to me, come.

As if it were a beckoning charm,

As if it were a desire, preparing me to receive its secrets,

To eventually become the master of my constellations.

Relying upon my language,

I am my very aspirations.

 I am my mother’s mother in my hopes,

My father’s father and my son’s son.

Rejoicing in something unseen,

Stringed instruments would carry me upon the backs of their euphonies,

Soothing me over and over again like a princess’s precious stone,

What is not sung now,

in this very morning, will never be sung.

Give us, oh love, all of your worth,

To plunge the eminent battles of those humane,

For the very moment calls for it,

As the sun polishes our weapons at dawn,

Oh, love, we have no end but the fated woes,

And the inevitable burdens of pain from your battles,

So stand! And triumph,

And hear your then critics now praise you,

Stand! Blessed are your hands,

And come back to us, defeated, and unharmed

Rejoicing in something unseen

I used to wander aimlessly, dreaming of a blue couplet,

About a joy so subtle, so light,

Both apparent and hidden.

Who does not love now, 

in this very morning,

will never love.

فَرِحاً بِشَيءٍ مَا خَفِيِّ

كُنْتُ أََحْتَضِنُ الصَّبَاحَ بِقُوَّةِ الإِنْشَادِ

فَرِحاً بِشَيءٍ مَا خَفِيِّ

كُنْتُ أََحْتَضِنُ الصَّبَاحَ بِقُوَّةِ الإِنْشَادِ

أَمْشِي وَافِقاً بِخُطَايَ

أَمْشِي وَافِقاً بِرُؤَايَ

وَحْيٌ مَايٌنَادِينِي: تَعَال

كَأَنَّهُ إِيْمَاءَةٌ سِحْرِيَّةٌ

َوكَأَنَّهٌ حُلْمٌ يُضَرِّبُنِي عَلَى أَسْرَارِهِ

لِأَكٌوْنَ سِّيدَ نَجْمَتِي فِي اللَّيْلِ

مُعْتَمِداً عَلَى لُغَتِي

أَنَا حُلْمي أَنَا

أَنَا أُمُّ أُمِّي فِي الرُّؤَى

وَأَبُو أَبِي, وَابْنِي أَنَا

فَرِحاً بِشَيءٍ مَا خَفِيِّ

كَانَ يَحْمِلُنِي عَلَى آلَاتِهِ الوَتَرِيِّةِ الإِنْشَادُ

يَصْقُلُنِيوَ يَصْقُلُنِي كَمَاسِ أَمِيْرَةٍ

مَا لَمْ يُغَنَّ الآنَ

فِي هَذَا الصَّبَاح فَلَنْ يُغَنّى

أَعْطِنَا، يَا حُبُّ, فَيْضَكَ كُلَّه

لِنَخُوْضُ حَرْبَ العَاطِفِيِّيْنَ الشَّرِيْفَةَ

فالمَنَاخُ مُلَائِمٌ

والشَّمْسُ تَشْحَذُ فِي الصَّبَاحِ سِلَاحَنَا

يَا حُبّ ! لَا هَدَفٌ لَنَا

إِلاَّ الهَزِيْمَةَ فِي حُرُوْبِكَ

فَانْتَصِرْ أَنْ تَنْتَصِرْ

وَاسْمَعْ مَدِيْحَكَ مِنْ ِضَحَايَاكَ

انْتَصِرْ! سَلِمَتْ يَدَاكَ

وَعُدْ إِلَيْنَا خَاسِرِيْنَ... وَسَالِماً

َفرِحاً بِشَيءٍ مَا خَفِيِّ

كُنْتُ أَمْشِي حَالِماً بِقَصِيْدَةٍ زَرْقَاءَ مِنْ سَطْرَيْنِ

عَنْ فَرَحٍ خَفِيْفِ الوَزْنِ

مَرْئِيٍِّ وَسِرِّيٍّ مَعاً

مَنْ لَا يُحِبُّ الآنَ

فِي هَذَا الصَّبَاحِ

.فَلَنْ يُحِبّ