Five Letters to my Mother, a poem by Nizar Qabbani
Good morning sweetheart.
Good morning my Saint of a sweetheart.
It has been two years, mother
since the boy has sailed
on his mythical journey.
Since he hid within his luggage
the green morning of his homeland
and her stars and rivers,
and all of her red poppy.
Since he hid in his clothes
handful of mint and thyme,
and a Damascene Lilac.
***
I am alone.
The smoke of my cigarette is bored,
and out of me even my seat is bored
My sorrows are like flocking birds looking for a grain field in season.
I became acquainted with the women of Europe,
I became acquainted with the emotions of cement and wood
I became acquainted with the civilization of fatigue.
I toured India, China,
And the entire oriental world,
and nowhere I found,
a Lady to comb my golden hair.
A Lady that carries for me in her purse a sugar candy.
A lady that dresses me when I am naked,
and lifts me up when I fall.
Mother: I am that boy who sailed,
and still longs to that sugar candy.
So how come or how can I, Mother,
became a father and never grew up.
***
I send my best regards
to a house that taught us love and mercy.
To your white flowers,
the best in the neighborhood.
To my bed, to my books,
to all of the kids in our neighborhood.
To all of those walls we covered
with our chaotic writings.
To the lazy cats sleeping on the balcony.
To the lilac climbing bush the neighbor's window.
It has been two years, O Mother,
with the face of Damascus is like a bird,
digging within my conscience,
biting at my curtains,
and picking, with a gentle beak, at my fingers.
It has been two years, O Mother,
since the nights of Damascus,
the odors of Damascus,
the houses of Damascus,
have been inhabiting my imagination.
The pillar lights of her minarets,
have been guiding our sails.
As if the pillars of the Amawi,
have been planted in our hearts.
As if the apple orchards are still perfuming our conscience.
As if the lights and the rocks,
have all traveled with us.
***
This is September, Mother,
and here is sorrow bringing me his wrapped gifts.
Leaving at my window his tears and his concerns.
This is September, where is Damascus?
Where is Father and his eyes.
Where is the silk of his glances,
and where is the aroma of his coffee.
May God bless his grave.
And where is the vastness of our large house,
and where is its comfort.
And where is the stairwell laughing at the tickles of blooms,
and where is my childhood.
Draggling the tail of its cat,
and eating from the grape vine,
and snipping from the lilac.
***
Damascus, Damascus,
what a poem we wrote within our eyes.
What a pretty child that we crucified.
We kneeled at his feet,
and we melted in his passion,
until, we killed him with our love.
