did I go in the morning to Thursday’s
market. I bought our house supplies,
and chose an orchid and mailed the letters.
A rain made me wet and filled me with the scent of oranges.
Did you tell me once that I was a pregnant palm tree,
or did I imagine that? If you don’t find me
fanning you, don’t fear the feeble air,
and sleep, my love, a blissful sleep . . .
At noon, I brandished my mirrors. I prepared
myself for a happy feast. And my breasts, your nights’
baby doves, were filling with yesterday’s lust.
I see in the marble veins the milk of licentious
talk running and screaming at the poets:
Write me, as Ritsos said. Where
have you hidden yourself
and hidden my exile from my desire?
I do not see my image in mirrors, or the image
of a woman from Athens running her emotional
errands as I do here
In the evening, I went to the cinema
with one of my girlfriends. The ancient American Indians
were flying in the time of war and peace
like antique meteors, like you and me.
I stared at a bird and I saw your wings
wearing my wings in eucalyptus trees.
We are rescued here the way dust is rescued
from the river. Whoever the victim is between us should dream
now, more than the other
After midnight, the sun rose
in our blood,
how much of me is you, my love
how often! who am I!
Copyright Mahmoud Darwish. Translation copyright 2006 by Fady Joudah. All rights reserved.