إِلَى أَعْمَاقِ مَجْهُولٍ .. يَتَنَاسَلُ!
نَحْنُ.. فِكْرَةُ خَلْقٍ يَتَكَوَّرُ
فِي رَحْمِ الْمُنَى!
*
نُعَايِنُ ظِلَالَ اللهِ
تَكْسُو بِحَارَ الْحَوَاسّْ
تُرْبِكُنَا أَمْواجُ الرَّهْبَةِ
فَنَتَقَوَّسْ
وَبِتَثَاقُلٍ مُهْتَرِئٍ
بَيْنَ تَعَارِيجِ الْحُزْنِ
وَبَيْنَ شَظَايَا الْفَرَحِ
نَتَّكِئُ
عَلَى مَسَاندِ الصَّمْتِ
نَنْكَأُ .. جُرُوحًا تَغْفُو
لِنَنْشُرَ .. سَوَادَ الْأَلَمِ .. حَلِيبًا
يَتَعَشَّقُهُ مِدَادُ الْحَنِين!
*
قَوَارِبُ أَحْلَامِنَا .. تَتَرَنَّحُ خَدِرَةْ
يَـ تَـ نَـا ثَـ رُ هَـا
جُوعُ عَوَاصِفِ الْوَقْتِ الْكَافِرِ
وَفِي دَوَّامَاتٍ .. مُفْرَغَةِ الْحُرُوفِ
وَبِوَرَعِ الضَّوْءِ الْخَافِتِ الْخَافِقِ
نَرْسُمُنَا قِصَصًا .. تَتَلَوَّى لَوْعَةً
فِي قَفَصِ الْبَرَاءَة!
لِبُرْهَةٍ
نُومِضُ بَسَمَاتٍ .. تَرْتَشِفُ دَمْعا
وَتَتَرَشَّحُ .. حَيْرَةً حَيْرَى
مِنْ ثُقُوبِ قَلْبٍ .. يَتَفَايَضُ نُورا
لِوَهْلَةٍ
تَنْثَنِي هَالَاتٌ .. مِنْ أَسْفَارِ الْأَيَّامِ
تَتَشَكَّلُ رَغْوَةَ تَسَاؤُلٍ
عَلَى جَبِينِ الْفُصُولِ!
وَبِخِلْسَةٍ
نَلِجُ أَحْشَاءَ الْعُمْرِ .. بِشَهْوَةٍ
تَعْزِفُنَا أَنَامِلُ نَيْسَانَ
أُكْذُوبَةً
عَلَى
أَوْتَارِ الذَّاكِرَةِ وَالنِّسْيَانِ الْمُتَقَاطِعَة!
Crossed Strings
Author: Amal Radwan (Palestinian poet)
Translator: Hassan Hegazy (Egypt)
Our names carried us to the depths of unknown reproducing..
We; an idea of a certain creation formed in the womb of the hope?!
We look carefully at the shadows of God that are covering the seas of senses;
Perplexed by the waves of fear.. inclining
and with worn heavy exhaustion
Among the bends of sorrow and the fragments of joy
Leaning on the backs of silence
Scraping sleeping wounds / to spread the dark of pain as milk
Loved and adored by the ink of yearning
*
The boats of our dreams are reeling.. dazed
Scattered by hunger of the storms of the infidel time,
And in swirls with hollow letters
With the dim of the faint beating light
painting ourselves stories twisting sorrow and pain
In the cage of the innocence
*
For a moment;
We glimpse smiles sipping tears
Seeping a dismayed confusion
From the holes of heart flowing light,
For a second;
Halos from the books of days are twisting
Forming a questionable foam on the forehead of seasons
Stealthily;
We get into the bowels of the age lustily
The fingers of April are playing us a lie
On the crossed chords of memory and
Forgetfulness !
