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Poetry

The Mothers

By Amina Saïd
Translated from French by Marilyn Hacker

From now on the mothers will sleep alone
among the portraits of the dead
only the mothers know where they’ve gone
and how the long labour of dying
had distanced them already from the living

alone from now on the mothers wander
among the graves of the departed
reciting down those avenues of death
prayers in unknown languages
telling the heavy beads of dispersed time

they no longer measure time
by nights that fall across the earth
nor by mornings rising on the world
they ask everyone where the territories
of death begin and where they end

the mothers discover solitude
the world contained by a square of hardened earth
they keep having the same dream that cracks darkness open
converse with the emptiness of mirrors
repeat the same prayer in which daylight is dying

from now on in the rumpled sheets of time
the mothers celebrate solitary weddings
in the deep silence of their houses
clocks without hands
mark the passage of the hours

from now on night will have eyes
tracking the mothers’ sleeplessness
two angels inhabit them who one day
will ask for our accounts when our turn
comes to approach the doors of heaven

with the rosary’s thread broken
the mothers pour the water of their tears
into the graves’ crucible
they pay attention to the flight of birds
messages from the dead between their wings

our second home is built
in the avenue of death say the mothers
why have we given life
just to struggle with the shadow for it
until our own last breath

all we see of our kin is bleached bones
hands soiled with graveyard earth
we plant trees and bushes so those branches
will be the roof of their new dwelling
if only we had known say the mothers

we reread letters the dead once sent
and imagine different answers
everything becomes clear once it is too late
there is not enough thread of regret
left to string the shards of our night

our hands tremble the mothers keep saying
from looking into too much darkness
our eyes can barely see light
the suns have deserted our gardens
long rags of cloud hang from the trees

we all dance suspended like puppets
with time holding the strings
our movements replicate
ancient gestures and from now on no one
will hear our expropriated speech

what wouldn’t we have done for our loved ones
plucked the splinters from life’s thorny bouquet
then one by one the roses wilted
from now on  through a windowframe
we will watch the sea marry the horizon

our life a glimmer that flickers on shadow
slowly we divest ourselves of our backbones
hunched over further each day
with the inconsequential weight of memory
and with waiting for our own end.

Translation of “Jusqu’aux lendemains de la vie.” Copyright Amina Saïd. By arrangement with the author. Translation copyright 2011 by Marilyn Hacker. All rights reserved.

English French (Original)

From now on the mothers will sleep alone
among the portraits of the dead
only the mothers know where they’ve gone
and how the long labour of dying
had distanced them already from the living

alone from now on the mothers wander
among the graves of the departed
reciting down those avenues of death
prayers in unknown languages
telling the heavy beads of dispersed time

they no longer measure time
by nights that fall across the earth
nor by mornings rising on the world
they ask everyone where the territories
of death begin and where they end

the mothers discover solitude
the world contained by a square of hardened earth
they keep having the same dream that cracks darkness open
converse with the emptiness of mirrors
repeat the same prayer in which daylight is dying

from now on in the rumpled sheets of time
the mothers celebrate solitary weddings
in the deep silence of their houses
clocks without hands
mark the passage of the hours

from now on night will have eyes
tracking the mothers’ sleeplessness
two angels inhabit them who one day
will ask for our accounts when our turn
comes to approach the doors of heaven

with the rosary’s thread broken
the mothers pour the water of their tears
into the graves’ crucible
they pay attention to the flight of birds
messages from the dead between their wings

our second home is built
in the avenue of death say the mothers
why have we given life
just to struggle with the shadow for it
until our own last breath

all we see of our kin is bleached bones
hands soiled with graveyard earth
we plant trees and bushes so those branches
will be the roof of their new dwelling
if only we had known say the mothers

we reread letters the dead once sent
and imagine different answers
everything becomes clear once it is too late
there is not enough thread of regret
left to string the shards of our night

our hands tremble the mothers keep saying
from looking into too much darkness
our eyes can barely see light
the suns have deserted our gardens
long rags of cloud hang from the trees

we all dance suspended like puppets
with time holding the strings
our movements replicate
ancient gestures and from now on no one
will hear our expropriated speech

what wouldn’t we have done for our loved ones
plucked the splinters from life’s thorny bouquet
then one by one the roses wilted
from now on  through a windowframe
we will watch the sea marry the horizon

our life a glimmer that flickers on shadow
slowly we divest ourselves of our backbones
hunched over further each day
with the inconsequential weight of memory
and with waiting for our own end.

Jusqu’aux lendemains de la vie

désormais les mères dorment seules
parmi les portraits des morts
elles seules savent où ils s’en sont allés
et comment le long travail du mourir
déjà les séparait du vivant

les mères désormais seules errent
parmi les tombes des défunts
récitant le long des avenues de la mort
des prières en des langues inconnues
égrenant le lourd chapelet du temps écoulé

elles ne comptent plus le temps
aux nuits qui tombent sur la terre
ni aux matins qui se lèvent sur le monde
à tous elles demandent où commencent
où finissent les territoires de la mort

les mères découvrent la solitude
le monde circonscrit à un carré de terre dure
elles refont le même rêve qui entrebâille les ténèbres
conversent avec le vide des miroirs
redisent la même prière où se meurt la lumière du jour

désormais entre les draps défaits du temps
les mères célèbrent leurs noces solitaires
dans le silence profond des maisons
des horloges sans aiguilles
rythment le passage des heures

désormais la nuit a des yeux
qui traquent l’insomnie des mères
en elles habitent les deux anges qui demain
nous demanderont des comptes quand notre tour
viendra d’approcher les portes du ciel

le fil du chapelet rompu
les mères versent l’eau de leurs larmes
dans la coupelle des tombes
elles surveillent le vol des oiseaux
les messages des morts entre leurs ailes

notre seconde demeure se dresse
dans l’avenue de la mort disent les mères
pourquoi avons-nous donné la vie
pour jusqu’à notre dernier souffle
la disputer à l’ombre

des nôtres nous ne voyons qu’os blanchis
nos mains souillées de la terre des cimetières
nous plantons arbres et arbustes que leurs branches
soient le toit de leur nouvelle demeure
si seulement nous avions su disent les mères

nous relisons les lettres des défunts
et imaginons des réponses neuves
tout s’éclaire lorsqu’il est trop tard
nous n’avons plus assez du fil des regrets
pour assembler les morceaux de notre nuit

nos mains tremblent disent encore les mères
à contempler de trop profondes ténèbres
nos yeux ne voient presque plus la lumière
les soleils ont déserté nos jardins et les nuages
en de longs haillons gris pendent aux arbres

tous nous dansons accrochés tels des pantins
au bout de la corde du temps
nos gestes sont la réplique
de gestes anciens et personne désormais
n’entend notre parole expropriée

que n’aurions-nous fait pour ceux que nous aimons
ôtant les échardes du bouquet épineux de la vie
puis une à une les roses se sont flétries
désormais depuis le cadre d’une fenêtre
nous contemplons les noces de la mer avec l’horizon

notre vie une lueur vacillante environnée d’ombre
peu à peu nous nous défaisons de nos vertèbres
chaque jour courbées davantage
par le poids dérisoire de la mémoire
et par l’attente de notre propre fin

Copyright Amina Said. All rights reserved.
 

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