Night

I wish the night was short, like my hair,
And that it was bright, like my heart,
And I could tie the distance between us with my life.
These tears are nothing but drops from my eyes,
And now I'm being rusted by them.

Yet the night is long, like my thoughts,
And horrifying, like my dreams,
And the distance as endless as my longing.
The sun is drunk, on the other side of the long pass where I came from,
Embraced by the night.

My hair has grayed,
But the night has remained dark.
Half of my hair is gone,
But the night is as thick as before.

⁠— Abdushukur Muhammet ( Uyghur poet)

बेख़बर कुर्सियाँ आँख मलती रहीं

बेख़बर कुर्सियां आँख मलती रहीं
बस्तियाँ बेगुनाहों की जलती रहीं
आदमियत मोहब्बत शराफ़त वफ़ा
नागिनें आस्तीनों में पलती रहीं

दो बदन जितने नज़दीक होते गए
कुर्बतें फ़ासलों में बदलती रहीं
जब मिरी ज़िंदगी में अँधेरा हुआ
मेरे चारों तरफ़ शम्मे जलती रहीं

ज़हर पानी बना मछलियों के लिए
पंछियों को हवाएँ मसलती रहीं
ज़िंदगी तेरी नाज़ुक बदन लड़कियाँ
आग की शाहराहों पे चलती रहीं

--- बशीर बद्र

पक गई हैं आदतें, बातों से सर होंगी नहीं

पक गई हैं आदतें बातों से सर होंगी नहीं
कोई हंगामा करो ऐसे गुज़र होगी नहीं

इन ठिठुरती उँगलियों को इस लपट पर सेंक लो
धूप अब घर की किसी दीवार पर होगी नहीं

बूँद टपकी थी मगर वो बूँदो—बारिश और है
ऐसी बारिश की कभी उनको ख़बर होगी नहीं

आज मेरा साथ दो वैसे मुझे मालूम है
पत्थरों में चीख़ हर्गिज़ कारगर होगी नहीं

आपके टुकड़ों के टुकड़े कर दिये जायेंगे पर
आपकी ताज़ीम में कोई कसर होगी नहीं

सिर्फ़ शायर देखता है क़हक़हों की अस्लियत
हर किसी के पास तो ऐसी नज़र होगी नहीं

--- दुष्यंत कुमार

I grant you refuge

1.
I grant you refuge
in invocation and prayer.
I bless the neighborhood and the minaret
to guard them
from the rocket

from the moment
it is a general’s command
until it becomes
a raid.

I grant you and the little ones refuge,
the little ones who
change the rocket’s course
before it lands
with their smiles.

2.
I grant you and the little ones refuge,
the little ones now asleep like chicks in a nest.

They don’t walk in their sleep toward dreams.
They know death lurks outside the house.

Their mothers’ tears are now doves
following them, trailing behind
every coffin.

3.
I grant the father refuge,
the little ones’ father who holds the house upright
when it tilts after the bombs.
He implores the moment of death:
“Have mercy. Spare me a little while.
For their sake, I’ve learned to love my life.
Grant them a death
as beautiful as they are.”

4.
I grant you refuge
from hurt and death,
refuge in the glory of our siege,
here in the belly of the whale.

Our streets exalt God with every bomb.
They pray for the mosques and the houses.
And every time the bombing begins in the North,
our supplications rise in the South.

5.
I grant you refuge
from hurt and suffering.

With words of sacred scripture
I shield the oranges from the sting of phosphorous
and the shades of cloud from the smog.

I grant you refuge in knowing
that the dust will clear,
and they who fell in love and died together
will one day laugh.

---  Hiba Abu Nada

(trans. Huda Fakhreddine)

Source: Protean Magazine

INTERPRETATIONS

A poet sits in a coffee shop, writing.
The old lady
thinks he is writing a letter to his mother,
the young woman
thinks he is writing a letter to his girlfriend,
the child
thinks he is drawing,
the businessman
thinks he is considering a deal,
the tourist
thinks he is writing a postcard,
the employee
thinks he is calculating his debts.
The secret policeman
walks, slowly, towards him.

- Mourid Barghouti

Oh rascal children of gaza

Oh rascal children of gaza,
You who constantly disturbed me 

with your screams under my window,
You who filled every morning 

with rush and chaos,
You who broke my vase

and stole the lonely flower on my balcony.
Come back –
and scream as you want and break all the vases.
Steal all the flowers,
Come back,
Just come back…

--- Khaled Juma

Leaving Childhood Behind

When I left, I left my childhood in the drawer
and on the kitchen table. I left my toy horse
in its plastic bag.

I left without looking at the clock

I forget whether it was noon or evening.

Our horse spent the night alone,

no water, no grains for dinner. 

It must have thought we'd left to cook a meal

for late guests or to 

for late guests or make a cake
for my sister's tenth birthday.

I walked with my sister towards our road with no end point.
We sang a birthday song.
The hovering warplanes echoed across the heaven.

My tired parents strolled behind,
my father clutching to his chest
the keys to our house and to the stable.

We arrived at a rescue station.
News of ceaseless strikes roared on the radio.
I hated death, but I hated life, too,
when we had to walk to our prolonged death,
reciting our never-ending ode.

- Mosab Abu Toha

“Think of Others”

As you prepare your breakfast, think of others
(do not forget the pigeon’s food).
As you conduct your wars, think of others
(do not forget those who seek peace).
As you pay your water bill, think of others
(those who are nursed by clouds).
As you return home, to your home, think of others
(do not forget the people of the camps).
As you sleep and count the stars, think of others
(those who have nowhere to sleep).
As you liberate yourself in metaphor, think of others
(those who have lost the right to speak).
As you think of others far away, think of yourself
(say: “If only I were a candle in the dark”).

--- Mahmoud Darwish