I’d like to take a moment now,
to ease your task, and make it clear.
I ask no pardon for this bow,
or words of kindness in my ear.
I love the God who you defame.
I love the land which you decry.
Each life is dear – in its own way –
for which every soul knows why.
I think this is enough for you.
So blot my words out, and my name.
It’s ok. You have your job – I did too.
Now let my papers feed the flame.
I worship You like the sunset,
I take the colors deep inside,
until no reds or blues are left,
and all is black as night.
I bring the colors home with me –
and draw them out again,
for all the men who haven’t seen,
what light can do to them.
I draw until there’s nothing left,
and then stow away the pens,
and crawl inside my bed to rest –
Tomorrow we will meet again.
Until then.
I translated this text last year in Dr. Suleimonova’s class. It was found in the old Semitic Museum on Divinity Avenue. Originally in ancient Semitic, it was translated from Persian. I hope you enjoy it. It took me much time…
Legend tells a tale of a sultan and his queen
put to words when Hebrew and Arab were one.
As time has passed, this dialect has decreased.
I am the last who speak this tongue.
So I, Abba, will translate this tale for you now,
and for those centuries yet in time’s womb.
May they speak Persian or know its sounds,
And so hear of this tale of love we knew.
And to honor the poet who penned these lines,
and the God who blessed the Sultan’s hands,
I will render this tale as it was – with no rhyme.
I trust you understand.
The Sultan ruled over a city, large and great,
when Damascus was but a camels’ resting place
by the sea and on the road to Tyre.
Of all of the possessions which the Sultan loved -
whether his garden filled with olive trees,
or the golden, alabaster studded chariots at his command,
whether the cedars standing like a wall to greet the silk traders from the East,
or the barbarians from the West he made till the sands,
it was the queen he loved most of all.
It was said in the garden near the pomegranate trees the Sultan kept a flower,
which he planted on the day they met.
About this the servants gossiped all the time (although this can still be considered true).
Every time the Sultan passed by it, (which he did often because he loved the color of its leaves), he would whisper a song he had written for her.
And this he would sing to her at night while the sun was setting in the garden.
The melody was set to butterfly wings.
The words, no one knows.
Much can be said about the general love he had for her,
but this alone can be considered the measure of his love:
That although he honored the Ancient God,
and prayed to Him each night,
he once considered believing in the Hindu creed,
upon hearing of the idea he may have lived before.
For he felt his love for her confirmed this -
and as if one of two points were true:
that either he had lived every life with her before,
and thus the love he felt was simply carried over,
or that he had lived no life with her before,
and that this life was meant from the beginning.
Sometimes the world seems as a page,
I am the left, and You, the right,
Each time I hold my pen I pray,
to fill good words out to Your side.
But though I strive to write long lines,
I cannot pass the sheet’s midway,
For poetry has its own design –
No matter what I have to say.
But if some hand could take the words -
And change them a bit on the line -
I could reach You — in this world.
.enim toN .htgnerts ruoY ekat dluow tI
(It would take Your strength. Not mine.)
