miércoles, 25 de mayo de 2011

Mahmoud Darwish, the Palestinian Poet...(PBUH)

Mahmoud Darwish (Arabicمحمود درويش‎) (13 March 1941 – 9 August 2008) was a Palestinianpoet and author who won numerous awards for his literary output and was regarded as the Palestinian national poet.[1] In his work, Palestine became a metaphor for the loss of Eden, birth and resurrection, and the anguish of dispossession and exile.

For more information about him let's check Wikipedia/Mahmoud Darwish


I have not been recognized in the shadows
color fade in my passport.
My tear was exposed
Post-loving tourists.
I have not been recognized ... Ah, do not deprive
sun in the palm of my hand,
because the tree
I know ...
I know all the songs in the rain
Do not leave me pale like the moon.

All the birds that has haunted
the palm of my hand at the entrance of the distant airport
all fields of wheat,
all prisons
all white tombs
all borders
all tissues that were shaken,
all eyes
were with me, but they
they erased my passport.

"Stripped of name, ownership,
in a land that has grown with my own hands?
Job has now filled the sky with his cry:
do not make me an example again!

Gentlemen, gentlemen, Prophets,
Do not ask your name to the trees,
Do not ask for her mother to the valleys:
my front splits the sword of light,
my hand springs and river water.
Every heart of man ... is my nationality:
Take me off the passport!


No forget the meeting,

No memory separates ...

Forgotten in the winter grass

On the street,

Between two long stories of bravery

And suffering.

"I am the victim!". "No, I'm

the only victim! ". They did not replicate:

"A victim does not kill another.

And in this story is a murderer

And a victim. "Were children

Snow collected cypresses of Christ

And playing with the angels because they

The same age ... fleeing school

To escape the math

And the old heroic poetry. In the barriers,

They played with soldiers

The innocent game of death.

Do not say: let the guns

And open routes for the butterfly to find

His mother nearly morning

For us to fly with the butterfly

Out of the dreams, because dreams are narrow

To our doors. Were children

They played and invented a story to the red rose

Under the snow, behind two long stories

Of bravery and suffering.

After fleeing with little angels

Towards a clear sky.


We love life when we find a way to it,
dance between two martyrs and erect including a minaret of violetsor a palm tree.

We love life when we find a way to it.

Steal a thread of silk worm to build our sky and the end of thisexodus.
We opened the gate for the jasmine to take to the streets wherebeautiful morning.

We love life when we find a way to it.

Wherever we are, we grow plants that grow quickly and collectmartyrs.
Blow on the flute the color of distance, draw a whinny in the dust of the road
and write our names stone by stone. Oh, lightning! Night lights forus, enlighten them a bit.

We love life when we find a way to it.

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