THE UNDERGROUND RIVER

The mysterious river
flows quietly underground
It flows in the dark
It makes no sound
It has no shape
It flows under the scorched desert
beneath the fields and orchards
under villages and cities
It runs and runs
towards its unknown mouth
through caves and lakes and reservoirs
It patiently carves its bed
in time with the pulse of the earth
The mysterious underground river
that has no name
that leaves no trace
on any map
in any guidebook
That underground river
eternally flows
It flows and flows
 
 

DESERTED CITY

On one of my journeys
I entered it, a silent city
devoid of any sign of life
its doors closed
wind blowing in its squares
but the lights in its windows
burning all through the night.
Who switches the lights on?
I saw the wilted flowers
and the children's broken swings
in the park . . . 
I knocked on doors,
and called. Could it be 
that they have all died?  Or left?
Or become invisible
because of some kind of spell?
Then I suddenly saw
the shadow of a woman
move slowly upon its marble plinth
struggling to awake from sleep,
and I called: "Eve, don't you know
who I am? - Adam."
But she couldn't recognise
the language I spoke.
 
 

THE VOICE

A voice like no other
comes from the end of wilderness
A voice like the call
of a dying god
who utters his curse
the groans of a wounded beast
the howling of a wind
that is not of this world.
A voice stabs in the night
in its heart.
In the beginning
no one heard it.
Then they got used to it
as it cut through the glittering lights of their city.
No one paid attention
any longer
No one questioned 
its presence.
You alone, poet,
stay up all night
awaiting the voice
that is wrapped in mystery
And why wouldn't it be possible
to advance the idea
that calamities are to be
expected, and that disasters
will strike?
 
 

THE KNOCKER

A light knock on the door
On the door a low-sounding
albeit very clear
knock
repeated night after night
which I anticipate
I listen to it
with its regular beat
that rises gradually
then abates
I open my door
but there is no one there.

Who is this
disguised knocker?
Could it be a ghost
returned from the darkness of the grave?
The victim of a vanished past?
A previous life
that has come back
to seek revenge?
A soul burdened with guilt
that roams in search of forgiveness?
A messenger from the beyond
who brings me a vague invitation
and a horse
to take me there?
 
 

ANOTHER CITY

Behind the city
with a hundred faces
there is another one
Behind the city where skyscrapers blaze with light
where the squares are crowded
where the stores are full
there is another city
There's a city of echoes and ghosts
that stands stock-still
rifling the memories of its dead.
Behind the city of colours
and noises, of movement and shapes
there is another city

that dogs the steps of the stranger
who happens to be you.
 
 

THE EVER-PRESENT DEAD

Who stalks our steps
in the deserted road?
Who knocks on our windows
when the night falls?
Who stirs our curtains
when the wind blows?

Who stretches his hands
in dreams, and calls across the river
to cross to the other side?

Who breathes with us
and whispers at the final
register of silence, in winter's vigil?
Who smiles inside the mirror
in the deepest hour of  grief?

The dead.
 
 

KINGS

Their faces are framed
in portraits kept in museums.
Their names are found in history books.
Their biographies contain
entertaining anecdotes.
To the servants they left
their bedclothes and slippers,
and tossed their crowns
to the royal competitors.
To their worthless inheritors
they bequeathed their fortunes.
As to their flesh,
the worms of the earth
had their ample share.
 

Translated by Sargon Boulus
 

Translated from a new gathering of Mahmoud al-Braikan's poems Matahat al-Farasha, 70 Qassida 1958-98,  [The Butterfly Labyrinth, 70 Poems 1958-98], assembled, selected and introduced by Bassem Al-Meraiby, Nippur Förlag, Sweden, 2003. Reprinted here from Banipal No 17, Summer 2003