Everything that the shepherd has said to the mountain
And to the river and the trees
And everything that people have said and didn’t say
In dancing arenas and on battlegrounds,
I have told you.
About the girl who sings at the window
And the gravel that breaks under the wheels of the train
About the cemetery that has been sleeping happily for centuries,
I have told you.
A flower from my body, every morning
I pick for you and throw it into the streets
For leaders, wisemen, and thieves to trample
And a flower from my body, every evening
I collect its crumbled petals and gather them for you,
And I talk about all that has happened to me.
Once, I sat by you and cried
My heart a burning field of rice
My fingers hanging like the tongues of dogs on summer days.
I wished to express myself with actions:
To break a glass
To open a window
To sleep
But I couldn’t
What do I talk about after twenty-six years
Or after twenty-six bullets fired into emptiness?
I am tired of talking, of debt, and work
But I will never tire of freedom
And here I am, dreaming of one thing or a few things:
That the word becomes bread and grapes
A bird or a bed,
That I wrap my left arm around your shoulder
And my right around the shoulder of the world
And say to the moon:
Take a photo of us.
Riyad Al-Saleh Al-Hussein