The Thorny Road

 

In our thorny road,

Dynamite bombs are planted,

Wheat stalks are burnt,

Only hunger,

Is still the defender.

 

 

 

Poems of Rebels

 

Whenever I recite

The poems of rebels,

I lose consciousness.

I become a bomb,

That shouts in the face

Of this cruel world.

I become a bomb,

That changes

The order of roles

In this strange world.

 

 

 

 

Last Letter

 

I need only one letter

To finish my poem.

This appeal has been answered

By an eternal cascade,

Of innocent blood.

 

 

 

 

For the Sake of Your Eyes

 

You've always been

My charming song,

My great ecstasy.

You've been more beautiful,

More precious,

And more desired,

Than eternal Paradise.

Yet,

You've become a thousand times

More beautiful,

More precious,

And more desired,

You've become so,

Just when they,

For the sake of your eyes,

Pulled off my eyes.

 

 

 

 

More Lovely

 

It's more lovely for me,

To be in jail in Haifa,

Suffering cruelness and torture,

Than living in a castle on a green hill,

Far away

From the sand of my beloved country.

 

 

 

 

Palestinian Mothers

 

Who is it that

Makes the history

Of this sacred land,

If not you,

Palestinian mothers?

 

 

 

 

Deformed Portrait

 

O my beautiful portrait!

In you,

I had a lake of dreams and great expectations.

From you,

I listened to a thousand jungles of symphonies.

With you,

I lived a long love story.

But

Since they deformed you

With bloodshed,

With hostile,

And with condemned sadism,

They not only wounded my heart,

But also

Crucified me on the same tree,

Beside Christ.

 

 

 

 

Optimism

 

O beloved country!

I still sing charming songs,

In spite of occupation.

I still have winged dreams,

In spite of beeing in jail.

I still have bunches of joys,

In spite of melancholy.

I'm still alive,

In spite of surrounding death

In spite of all,

I still see

Peace and freedom,

In the eyes of children.

 

 

 

 

Our Daily Talks

 

Memories and longings

Are no more

Our daily talks.

Perfume,

Coiffeur,

Passionate songs and silky clothes,

Are no more our daily talks.

The music of guns,

The flags of resistance,

The dreams of victory,

And the glorious return to our country,

Have all become our daily talks.

 

 

 

 

Drinks of Victory

 

Niruda!

Shout with me.

Shout with me.

You!

Poet of liberty.

Blood is flowing

In the old streets!

Blood is filling

The cups of wine!

Blood is being drunk by the oppressors,

Who have achieved victory,

Against children!

 

 

 

 

The Star and the Rose

 

The star asked the rose:

Where have you come from?

The rose answered:

From the heart of clouds.

The rose asked the star:

Where have you come from?

The star answered:

From the heart of earth.

 

 

 

 

A Family Dialogue

 

Why do they want my head?

Why?

Because, in your head,

My lovely child,

There are jewels that amaze them.

Why do they want to pull off my eyes?

Because, in your eyes,

My darling

Birds have their warm nests.

Why do they prevent me of singing?

Because foxes hate songs,

And fear the roaring of lions.

Why have I been born,

Without an identity?

To carry,

My lovely child,

The sorrows of this world.

To achieve,

My lovely child,

The dreams of this world.

 

 

 

 

Palestinian Children

 

Death

Reaps the flowers

Of almond trees

Everywhere,

But, in Palestine,

Trees give fruit

Before flowers.

 

 

 

 

The Oppressed, the Oppressor

 

In my country,

Delicate stars

Burn the mighty sun,

At midday.

Young birds,

Tell stories of glory,

To dangerous serpents.

Wheatstalks,

Take off their green

And yellow garments,

And participate in struggle.

In my country,

The appressed has become

The oppressor!

 

 

 

 

Daily News

 

Daily news are pregnant,

They spit voming,

In the face of truth.

Every minute they become pregnant.

Every minute they enduce abortion.

And the drizzle of voming,

Blunted eyes

From perceiving the truth.

 

 

 

 

Disloyalty

 

Our days are deceptive,

Treacherous.

Laugh at our faces.

Frown at our faces.

Carry

The changeable colors,

Of disloyalty.

 

 

 

 

History That Drinks Blood

 

Ahmad hasn't been well known,

Except to his intiment friends.

But,

After being martyred,

Ahmad has become a history,

Irrigated with blood.

 

 

 

 

Tiny Fingers

 

I read what tiny fingers dig,

Into the forehead of shame.

I read what tiny fingers draw,

In the eyes of daylight

 

 

 

 

The Song of the Nightingale

 

The nightingale sang his

Charming song,

In the warm nest,

Then he flew into the heart

Of endless sky.

Yet

In a trice,

He became a glittering star,

That spread light

Over the whole world.

 

 

 

 

The Frame of Palestinian Issue

 

Sun collapsed into the arms of dawn,

When my shivering neck

Had dropped,

Under the hanging rope.

Stars crept close to me,

And wept mutely,

On the cheeks of night.

Dear fellow!

Tear the gown off the torturing tattoo.

Between eyelashes and eyes,

Only false lakes are there.

Fellow!

Be not so sad,

I'm not the first victim,

And I shall never be the last.

My neck became a cloud,

My eyelashes a jungle,

So, my dear fellow,

أدبيات
 

 

 

   
 

The Thorny Road

 

In our thorny road,

Dynamite bombs are planted,

Wheat stalks are burnt,

Only hunger,

Is still the defender.

 

 

 

Poems of Rebels

 

Whenever I recite

The poems of rebels,

I lose consciousness.

I become a bomb,

That shouts in the face

Of this cruel world.

I become a bomb,

That changes

The order of roles

In this strange world.

 

 

 

 

Last Letter

 

I need only one letter

To finish my poem.

This appeal has been answered

By an eternal cascade,

Of innocent blood.

 

 

 

 

For the Sake of Your Eyes

 

You've always been

My charming song,

My great ecstasy.

You've been more beautiful,

More precious,

And more desired,

Than eternal Paradise.

Yet,

You've become a thousand times

More beautiful,

More precious,

And more desired,

You've become so,

Just when they,

For the sake of your eyes,

Pulled off my eyes.

 

 

 

 

More Lovely

 

It's more lovely for me,

To be in jail in Haifa,

Suffering cruelness and torture,

Than living in a castle on a green hill,

Far away

From the sand of my beloved country.

 

 

 

 

Palestinian Mothers

 

Who is it that

Makes the history

Of this sacred land,

If not you,

Palestinian mothers?

 

 

 

 

Deformed Portrait

 

O my beautiful portrait!

In you,

I had a lake of dreams and great expectations.

From you,

I listened to a thousand jungles of symphonies.

With you,

I lived a long love story.

But

Since they deformed you

With bloodshed,

With hostile,

And with condemned sadism,

They not only wounded my heart,

But also

Crucified me on the same tree,

Beside Christ.

 

 

 

 

Optimism

 

O beloved country!

I still sing charming songs,

In spite of occupation.

I still have winged dreams,

In spite of beeing in jail.

I still have bunches of joys,

In spite of melancholy.

I'm still alive,

In spite of surrounding death

In spite of all,

I still see

Peace and freedom,

In the eyes of children.

 

 

 

 

Our Daily Talks

 

Memories and longings

Are no more

Our daily talks.

Perfume,

Coiffeur,

Passionate songs and silky clothes,

Are no more our daily talks.

The music of guns,

The flags of resistance,

The dreams of victory,

And the glorious return to our country,

Have all become our daily talks.

 

 

 

 

Drinks of Victory

 

Niruda!

Shout with me.

Shout with me.

You!

Poet of liberty.

Blood is flowing

In the old streets!

Blood is filling

The cups of wine!

Blood is being drunk by the oppressors,

Who have achieved victory,

Against children!

 

 

 

 

The Star and the Rose

 

The star asked the rose:

Where have you come from?

The rose answered:

From the heart of clouds.

The rose asked the star:

Where have you come from?

The star answered:

From the heart of earth.

 

 

 

 

A Family Dialogue

 

Why do they want my head?

Why?

Because, in your head,

My lovely child,

There are jewels that amaze them.

Why do they want to pull off my eyes?

Because, in your eyes,

My darling

Birds have their warm nests.

Why do they prevent me of singing?

Because foxes hate songs,

And fear the roaring of lions.

Why have I been born,

Without an identity?

To carry,

My lovely child,

The sorrows of this world.

To achieve,

My lovely child,

The dreams of this world.

 

 

 

 

Palestinian Children

 

Death

Reaps the flowers

Of almond trees

Everywhere,

But, in Palestine,

Trees give fruit

Before flowers.

 

 

 

 

The Oppressed, the Oppressor

 

In my country,

Delicate stars

Burn the mighty sun,

At midday.

Young birds,

Tell stories of glory,

To dangerous serpents.

Wheatstalks,

Take off their green

And yellow garments,

And participate in struggle.

In my country,

The appressed has become

The oppressor!

 

 

 

 

Daily News

 

Daily news are pregnant,

They spit voming,

In the face of truth.

Every minute they become pregnant.

Every minute they enduce abortion.

And the drizzle of voming,

Blunted eyes

From perceiving the truth.

 

 

 

 

Disloyalty

 

Our days are deceptive,

Treacherous.

Laugh at our faces.

Frown at our faces.

Carry

The changeable colors,

Of disloyalty.

 

 

 

 

History That Drinks Blood

 

Ahmad hasn't been well known,

Except to his intiment friends.

But,

After being martyred,

Ahmad has become a history,

Irrigated with blood.

 

 

 

 

Tiny Fingers

 

I read what tiny fingers dig,

Into the forehead of shame.

I read what tiny fingers draw,

In the eyes of daylight

 

 

 

 

The Song of the Nightingale

 

The nightingale sang his

Charming song,

In the warm nest,

Then he flew into the heart

Of endless sky.

Yet

In a trice,

He became a glittering star,

That spread light

Over the whole world.

 

 

 

 

The Frame of Palestinian Issue

 

Sun collapsed into the arms of dawn,

When my shivering neck

Had dropped,

Under the hanging rope.

Stars crept close to me,

And wept mutely,

On the cheeks of night.

Dear fellow!

Tear the gown off the torturing tattoo.

Between eyelashes and eyes,

Only false lakes are there.

Fellow!

Be not so sad,

I'm not the first victim,

And I shall never be the last.

My neck became a cloud,

My eyelashes a jungle,

So, my dear fellow,

Carry not melancholy in your heart.

Fellow!

Keep chanting your lovely songs,

To help me bear my death.

For I'm not the issue,

I'm the frame of the Palestinian issue.

 

 

 

 

You'll Never Resist the Sunshine

 

My heart leaves me and lives with you,

My country children, boys and girls.

Who are captured in the enemy's jails

Shouting and resisting,

In the rooms of torture:

You!

Ugly wolves

You'll never frighten us

Of torture.

You'll never frighten us

Of death.

A part of the brown generous soil,

We are.

A part of the wild flowers on our proud mountains,

We are.

A rich fountain of love and songs,

We are.

So, continue your ugly affliction.

But,

You can never pull off sand from our country.

You can never steel fragrant from flowers.

You can never prevent charming songs of breeze.

You can never deport mountains.

You can never arrest beauty.

You can never hang fountains.

And you'll never resist the sunshine.

You'll never resist the sunshine.

 

 

 

 

I Dream and Dream

 

Not of castles or silky clothes,

Not of gold or precious jewelry,

Not of travelling round the world, I dream.

I only dream,

Of wandering inside my own garden,

Of watching young children play and laugh,

Of drinking coffee in my open balcony.

I only dream,

Of watching my mother's happiness jump off her eyes,

Of seeing my far away brothers and sisters,

Of their children running joyfully into my arms.

I only dream,

Of walking in our beautiful street,

Without being afraid of soldiers' patrol,

That intends to kill those who walk.

I only dream,

Of driving my car into the streets of Ramallah,

Without being stopped by soldiers,

Who announce the street a military area.

I only dream,

Of sleeping calmly in my night chamber,

Without being disturbed by weaponed civil men,

Who invade houses at midnight.

I dream and dream

Of peace and freedom,

Not only to me and to my people,

But, also, to every human being,

In this wide world.

 

 

 

 

The Root of the Tree

 

The boughs of Arab Tree,

Multiply to a large extent.

The tempest blows them away,

But, all boughs,

How ever they are separated,

Still drink,

From the same root.

 

 

 

 

Why and How?

 

Why do I love you?

Has earth been asked,

Why loving trees?

Have songs been asked,

Why dancing on tunes of music?

Have lovers been asked,

Why being vigilant?

Has the sun been asked,

Why decorating the eyes of the moon with light?

How do I love you?

I love you,

As a brook of longing

Gathering the dust of deserts,

And making them cascade of life's thirst.

I love you,

As the dewy dawn,

As the fragrant of jasmine.

I love you as I love you.

Why do I love you?

I'm tired my darling, I'm tired .

I love you the same as a fidai loves his land.

Will you ask again?

 

 

 

 

Between You and Me

 

Between you and me,

Ah! My darling

Is it warring?

Is it loss?

Is it a new catastrophe?

But

We might die before war dies!

Before loss and catastrophe disappear!

Between you and me,

Ah! My beloved

There are piles of occupation agony, and military orders,

Against both of us:

A home arrest for me,

And an eternal exile for you!

 

 

 

 

The path of Life way

 

I know well that age is short,

And that the path of life way is long.

Yet

To live that age,

And to walk that long path of life way,

One has to dig a dagger of love

Into his own heart!

 

 

 

 

The New nationality

 

I only need a pen and a gun.

With my pen,

Explode dynamite and atom bombs.

With my gun,

Draw happy dreams,

Decorate green fields,

Scatter laughs,

Scratch wars,

And make a law of peace and love.

With my gun,

Cancell boundaries,

And offer all human beings,

A new dynamic nationality,

That allows all

To go round the world,

Without identity.

 

The Minaret

 

I've read the history of all nations.

Yet, I've never found,

In books of history and civilization,

Any people,

Whoíd built a minaret to their country,

Of their own flesh and blood,

The same

As we, Palestinians, had.

 

 

 

 

The Candles

 

Inside my heart,

Illumes a stream of million candles.

But

When a tear of sadness

Drops from my eye,

Light collapses,

And death sleeps calmly,

On the pellow of my melancholy.

 

 

 

My Dreams

 

Since the birth of Christ,

I dreamt of joy,

That has never come.

Since I became the martyred,

I drew my dreams,

On tears and rainbows.

 

 

 

 

Ask Them

 

Does light vanish

From the eyes of the moon,

If they are being closed?

Does the bird stop singing,

If his mouth is being shut?

 

 

 

 

Palestinian Dreams

 

As faith and destiny cling into each other,

As the brown soil melts when kissing rain,

As the blond star disappears when the moon laughs,

I melt into you,

I disappear in your charming eyes.

I become a vein in your great heart,

My country.

You!

The musical song of heaven that makes birds dance,

Trees rejoice,

Children run happily into fields of almond and olive trees.

That makes loving eyes,

Whisper warmly to each other.

O country!

I wish you were a beautiful nest,

That attracts every emigrant nightingale,

Of your original birds.

I wish I were a red rose,

That covers the way of returners with hope and love,

I wish I were a green wheatstalk,

A drop of water,

A grasp of sand.

I wish you were my everlasting homeland.

I dream I were a matchstick,

That kisses every proud candle,

That sings for the rebirth of a New World,

That embraces clouds,

And covers the soil with grass.

I dream I were a butterfly,

That decorates fields,

Laughs to light,

Kisses flowers day and night,

Smiles to children,

And draws history for new generations.

I dream that the whole world,

Was a public song.

Chanted by all humans, young and old,

During the journey of life,

At wedding parties,

At harvest seasons,

At beauty festivals and glorious feasts.

O country!

I wish you were the heavenly message of God to earth,

To every humanbeing,

To every life on this wide world.

Thus, darkness will drown into darkness,

Moon will become happy,

And children will play joyfully on fields of almond and olive trees,

While charming eyes smile warmly into loving eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

I Saw Him Yesterday, I Saw Him Tomorrow

 

I saw him yesterday,

Swimming at the lake of thinking,

Wading into the deep caves of sorrow,

Chasing blackbirds,

Struggling against destiny,

Disappearing in the land of insanity,

Wandering in the darkness,

And carrying in his eyes, deep hatred to human beings.

Yet,

I saw him grasping a torch of hope and dreams.

I saw him conquering death and defeating destiny.

I saw him tomorrow,

Embracing horizon,

Playing with stars,

Kissing clouds,

And shaking hands with faith.

I saw him an angel,

A bee,

A smile,

A rose,

A kiss.

I saw him a forest of wild flowers,

An oasis of joy and tenderness.

I saw him there,

Paving our way with peace and justice,

Cutting fences and destroying boundaries.

I saw him climbing up the summit of the holy rock,

Raising the flag,

Raising the flag,

Raising the flag.

 

 

 

 

 

Death In The Lab of Land

 

Alone I waked,

Holding love in my heart,

Carrying sadness in my sleepy eyes,

My deep wounds bleeding.

Nails of severe coldness being digged into my bones.

For the mornings of Gaza are chilling.

Hunger and darkness have made of me,

A murdered,

Wearing the uniform of a murderer.

Alone I walked,

Embracing the childish dreams of my seven kids.

Meditating of the warmth of their innocence .

With nothing to own,

Except thirsty eyes for the sunrise of my beloved Jaffa.

Except sweet memories that irrigated my land

With love, dreams and deep longing.

Except the smiles of birds that have escaped, before dawn,

From their cages,

And covered the horizon,

Which has been drowned in the lake of death.

Alone I walked

In one hand, some bread, olives and tomatoes.

In the other, love, patience and hesitation.

I walked into chains of massacres and bloodshed.

I walked from Deir Yassin and Qufr Qassem.

From the hill of sculps at Tall El-Zaatar.

From Sabra and Shatella

Where death invaded festivals.

Where a soldier transformed into a devil,

That smashed herbs and dewy flowers.

O you Qufr Qassem!

Tell me, for the sake of God!

How does death look like in the lab of land?

How does time collapse?

How do heart beatings become gunfire of nothing?

How does life become a nightmare? A horror?

Tell me Qufr Qassem

What makes my dreams small?

What makes the dreams of birds great?

What makes the bloodshed of my heart at daylight legal?

What?

If not the absence of justice in this crazy world!

My eyes scrambled over the waves of an unseen ocean.

Suddenly,

My eyesight returned to me.

I saw a young brown child, at the age of flowers,

I saw her cut the vigorous waves, with her tiny arms.

Immediately

The ocean has changed into a forest:

The fainted moon has been carried into the arms of a cloud.

I almost died of thirst

Yet, in a glance

She jumped from the heart of rain

Carrying in one hand a glass of water

In the other, a stone.

 

 

 

I want to have a state

 

Not a strong, powerful state

Is that I want

Not a blind- minded state

That pulls out crumbs of food

From its own population

To make atom bombs

A clean, transparent, self- dependent state

Is all I want

With enough air to breathe,

Water to drink

Food to eat

Houses to live in

Schools to learn

Factories to work

Public libraries to read

And parks to dream and relax

A state that makes her own food

And weaves her own clothes

That never opens its hands

Neither to relatives nor to strangers

Full of pride

Embraces stars

And squeezes clouds

To get needed water

A state with happy families

Whose children lighten their dark days and nights

With charming smiles,

Joyful laughs and lovely songs

 

A high forehead state

That lives equally and peacefully among all others

So Simple

So beautiful

And so dynamic

That all I need from

Is just a small and great word

ď FREEDOMĒ

 

 

 

 

The City of Dreams

 

Bisceglie

The City of dreams

The song of waves

The bird of joys

And the rose of ancient love

Bisceglie

The innocent girl

That sleeps calmly

In the arms of the Mediterranean festival

The holy saint

That prays in children's smiles

Bisceglie

The loving mother

Who gave birth

To all these kind people

Whom I loved very much

And loved their charming smiles

Into which my eyes had drowned

When I returned to Ramallah

I found you in my bags

When I looked in the mirror

I saw you on my cheeks

When I walked in the streets

You were walking by my side

And when I put my head on my pillow

I was putting it on your warm lap

Bisceglie

Who has ornamented my heart

With you?

Who has changed you into a lovely tune ?

That my dreams drink from?

And who has changed your wonderful people

Into intimate friends and relatives

That fill my garden?

Bisceglie

I found in you real security

Which I had never known

Freedom which I was deprived from

Peace which I still dream of

And love which all Palestinians are thirsty for.

I saw simplicity, which surpasses all beauty

Bisceglie

Will you allow me to dream that, one-day,

I see in my country,

All that I have seen in you?

 

 

7.9.2000

 

 

 

 

The Martyred Child

" To Mothers of martyred children during Al Aqas Intifada"

 

O child!

O beloved son!

Sleep as calmly as an angel does,

On the waves of loving hands,

With your beautiful, quiet face,

As a bunch of roses,

Paying no attention to glory,

That is surrounding your small body,

And holding you patiently.

Sleep calmly

As a bird

In a warm nest.

Listen, only, to the chant of God

In heaven.

Here you are,

You!

Myth of place and time!

Embrace dreams!

Make of wheat seeds,

Wide shores of charming music!

Shine!

As an everlasting star.

As a sun,

That scatters light on endless fields.

 

I behold you!

A spring of iris and chrysanthemum

A generous cloud

That pours its charming scent,

At the whole world.

You!

Innocent angel!

Glittering smile!

Who says that you are away from me?

Who says that you are away from us?

You are still living

In our hearts and eyes,

With your small hand

Embracing the Palestinian colored flag,

Grasping the white sacred stone,

And throwing it

At the face of oppression.

The tires you burnt in the middle of the street

Are still flaming,

As an angry hell.

Spouting hatred

At those,

Who dream of living, forever,

In our homeland.

And condemning those,

Who awakened you

From your noble dreams.

 

22/11/2000

 

 

 

 

The symphony of war and peace

 

Bofore the ink of signitures on the peace agreement between Egypt and Israel has dried. Before Israeli soldiers take off war garments and wear white shirts, as the peace song and peace dance claim. Israeli army attacks the south of Lebanon.

During battles between Israelis and Lebanese, a Palestinian fida'i and an Israeli soldier suddenly face each other.

At the first moment, both of them stand still with their Russian and American weapons. Each one looks at the other without any sign of intention to kill. Though their clothes show clearly who they are.

Both of them stand astonished and amazed.

What great and incredible strength prevents each of them to use his gun?!

All of a sudden, the astonishment vanishes, and is changed into a hesitating smile. Gradually, the distance between them disappears.

- Hello.

- Hello.

- What's your name?

- Mosheh. And you?

- Mohammed.

- Why didnít you kill me, Mohammed?

- I don't know. And you, why didnít you kill me?

- I don't know exactly. May be I Ďve seen my brother in you.

- Do I look like your brother?

- No. I actually donít have any brothers.

- How, then, youíve seen me as your brother?

- I just imagined that I have a brother in you at the very moment we met.

- Strange! Me too. Something extraordinary happened to me. It bounded me tightly to you.

- What is it?

- I can't explain. But that feeling has prevented me from killing you. By the way, are you an Arab?

- Yes. I am from Iraq.

- My God! May be this is the reason.

- May be. And you? Are you a Lebanese?

- No. I'm from Palestine.

- But you have a Lebanese accent!

- Yes, yes. Itís the same accent of my friends and colleagues. I was born here in Lebanon.

- Tell me Mohammed, Why do you live in Lebanon?

- Because my family was forced to leave Haifa since 1948. Many Palestinian families refuged to Lebanon. And you Mosheh? Why did you come to Palestine?

- I didnít come to it, I was born there. My family was obliged to leave Iraq for Israel.

- Ah! Isn't this the secret behind our strange feeling, not to shoot at each other?

- Do you think so?

- Why not? Thatís what both of us share in, you and I, my friend, are two sides of the same coin. I don't know why they have made of us enemies, holding guns, to kill each other. Well, what do you dream of, Mosheh?

- I dream of return.

- To Palestine?

- No. I dream of return to Baghdad. My father described it as a paradize. He wishes he could see it, at least, in his last days.

- I'm like you Mosheh. And so are my parents. We all dream of return to Haifa. Let's sit by this rock.

- My father told me that Baghdad is like the palm of the hand. Have you ever seen Palestine?

- No I have never seen it except in my dreams. I tried my best to go to it with my colleagues, but I was unlucky. Do you believe Mosheh?

I wish its soil breaks up and swallows me.

- Oh God! Do you love Palestine to that degree?

More, Mosheh, much more.

Well, why donít we draw together a new map of a new situation?

What do you mean?

Haven't your PLO suggested a democratic state in Palestine? Lets' be, you and I, the small seed of it. You are laughing! Donít you want that?

I do want it. But listen. Look there. Donít you see your planes, my friend? They are blowing death and hatred towards my people.

I feel ashamed. This is the recent American bargain. It seems that they are testing it on you. By the way, Mohammed, why donít you have planes like ours?

Because our Arab governments take care of broad casting and of looking after pigions.

- Why do they look after pigions?

- That helps them imagine that they are strong and powerful.

- I donít understand you!

- Well, haven't you heard of the Sadat's enterprise? Didnít he, himself, carry the dovecotes to you? Didnít he tell you that he would demolish the dividing wall of fear between you and the Arab countries? He thought that he will retain, by that, the Palestinians' and Arab rights.

- Donít you like his enterprise?

- No. Because, any right without strength turns into a poem in the throat of a poet. It may strangle him at any moment.

This is our problem, Mosheh. We are all poets. We are all strangled by the poems that freeze in our throats.

- Cheer up, my friend. There is a solution

what is it?

To put your hand in mine.

What else?

To become one person.

How?

Thus.

Mosheh takes Mohammedís hand into his. They smile warmly to each other. The two fists cling firmly.

At that moment, an Israeli bombardment passes by and spits its bombs.

The two bodies burn completely. Around each neck, there is a neck chain. The two fists intermix, they are impossible to be seperated.

A group of Israeli soldiers stand in front of the two corpses. The Russian and American weapons are still scattered by the rock. The eternal talk of their fists changes ints a melancholy symphony, intermingling with the water of Dijla, and flying in the sky of Al Carmel.

 

 
 
 
   

 

تم تصميم هذا الموقع سنة 2002 

تم تجديد الموقع سنة 2012 

حقوق الطبع لجميع صفحات هذا الموقع محفوظة لزينب حبش 2012 ©