To Khaled Najjar

The dream is endangered 
friends laugh at my dreams 
while I am afraid of dying 
don't kill me 
listen to me 
I'm the runaway from museums 
I'm the Assyrian child
 
 

To the Refugee Centre

My God, was it written that we should bathe 
in all waters of the world
 
 

To the Enemies

Calm down, calm down 
I'm a man without a compass
 
 

To Jacqueline Bisset

Only the autumn leaf fallen asleep 
under the raindrops 
knows my thirst
 
 

To Johnny Halliday

On the Concorde bridge 
the sad Assyrian found 
on a certain night his lost tongue 
On the Concorde bridge 
he was not alone 
he was clothed in his hunger 
and his worn-out clothes 
his beard 
the pallor of his face 
and his down-at-heel shoes 
worn thin as his pockets.
On that same night 
the ancient boy stroked his big nose and said: 
my friends are no more my friends 
and I am no more their friend 
On the Concorde bridge 
he was not alone 
watching the Seine 
frozen with cold
 
 

To Ronald Reagan

O freezing blast of winter 
make tears ripple from my eyes 
so that the sad Assyrian may embark 
O horse in our narrow lane 
close your eyes when my friend passes by traitor
 
 

The Assyrian mirage

To Fyryal Lakhdar

I examine your coloured brush-strokes, your paintings and I invent an Assyrian king 
on top of a hill, rejoicing in his inhumanity 
commanding his soldiers to slash their prisoners' throats 
down below by the reflecting pool 
that drifts away as soldiers and prisoners approach it 
walking in line all night and day 
and nations rise up, and temples 
and a poem, O my friend
 
 

To Saleem Barakat

Thirty years of illusion
but in one morning in Scandinavia
I found proof of the end of the Assyrian Empire
I was alone
the cold was making a mockery of me
with no socks between my feet
and the snow on the roadway
I saw again the prow of the ship
breaking the ice floes out to sea
while the sad young girl
gazes into the eyes of the young dolphin
and embarks on the wrong boat
I said to myself
is it the fever in my body
or the fire in my lascivious eyes
making the snows of Scandinavia melt?
 
 
 

To Kadhim Jihad

How can I convince myself he's dead 
when I've not seen the objects he no longer handles? 
To convince myself of my father's death 
I ought 
to be 
back home 
in 
our 
house 
beside 
my mother
 
 
 

To Hamid Habbache

The clothes of emigrants 
are made of the colours of cities
 
 
 

To Barbara Streisand 

I'm going to sing
said the Assyrian boy
and when I get feverish make me shut up.
And he began to float down *Nadhim Al-Ghazali's throat
They made him shut up
then Nisreen put her head round the wooden door:
"For the love of God, let him go on singing
he has a beautiful voice.
The boy was happy.
But did Nisreen love the little boy?
She sent him to the market to buy
dough, a watermelon
and a few olives.
The boy put his pocket money with the change
and told her:
You see, I always get bargains.
But
does Nisreen doubt the throbbings of a heart so round?
At school, in the race
the boy runs
fast, fast, fast
he sees his Nisreen in a palace going up in flames
he runs he runs he runs
across the finish line
to save Nisreen
and wins an aluminium cup
with no wine in it
but
did Nisreen see the rounded heart taking flight?
And over there
on the square of beaten earth
drums and pipes
the black circles of kaffiyehs
Like circles of dancers
and the hard beat of their feet
pale is the face of the little boy
his frail limbs falter -
is it true, today's the day when
Nisreen's getting wed?
 

* Nadhim al-Ghazali - a great Iraqi singer who died in 1963.
 
 
 

To Steven Spielberg

Each time I feel I am in exile 
I enter the nearest cinema: 
my parents and my country
 
 
 

To Sargon Boulus

My native land?
The last book I'd think of reading.
 
 
 

To Scandinavia

Like a lost prophet 
I put my madness on again 
and I stamp my face in the wind
 
 

Translated by James Kirkup and Samia Akl Boustani from French and Arabic 
 

Published originally in al-Karmel magazine and the author's collection Old Boy. Republished here from Banipal No 15/16