Ancient Semitic Text Decoded!

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.

Wife

Wife,

When I find you, I want to take pictures
of your arms, both left and right,
and place them in my wallet.

I hope this is all right.

It is in case I die away from you.
At which time, they may serve as charms.

Both will be placed, one by each side,
So I can die within your arms.

The Dreamer’s Realm

Oh Sleep, thou son of Death,
who a thousand years ago unseen,
your father kissed and home left
with nothing but your dreams.

Who whispers to me in the dim,
poems of Love – from your shore –
which you’ve told to lovers and madmen
who have lived and died before.

Bring me to your father’s home,
to the land of songs never dreamed,
where words no lover has known,
sit locked in rhymes no man has seen.

For each day holds naught for me,
Save for dreams, and the thoughts thereof.
And I would give a life of sleep,
For an eternity of Love.

The Smile Which Lit the Sun

Was it her smile which lit the sun?
I dare not propose a lesser mark,
It is altogether more pure and done,
Than the land of heat and spark.

For the sun’s rays are oft too strong,
And are the sorest forms of hosts,
They give cancers, burns, and wrongs,
To those of us who love them most.

And how they observe their holy days!
And long dance in clouds of drear,
And so turn their warmest light to haze,
When their warmth is needed here.

Yet her smile is simply “the best”,
Never too weak nor too strong,
None the cursed but all the blessed,
All the right and none the wrong.

It is a journey to the sea and isle,
Before all light mystically begun,
And is a reminder of that smile -
Which dared to light the sun.

Books

My boy, when I was young,
I, like you, was nimble, free,
Merrily, oh how I sung,
Songs of the land and sea!

As some men love the drink,
Well, books it was for me,
And in their pages I did sink,
Lost the land, sea — the free.

You see, my boy, I read,
Of feats, peril, and the like,
Lived on these hopes instead,
Of hopes of my own kind.

Now in my latter years,
I’ve woken to this fact,
It’s best to face many fears,
Than to never learn to act.

So take me to the road,
My boy, take me to the free,
Nature is the last abode,
For men such as me!

The road is my creed -
The waters – or that shore,
And with every book I read,
I learn to miss adventure more.

So take me from these books,
My boy, take me to the free,
I long but again to look,
On the windy, green sea.

Ah, to taste the salt again,
To feel the sun and the swell,
It’s a little piece of heaven,
In this little piece of hell.

Five Minutes

Five minutes I cannot buy,
even if I want but a second try,
or to feel love lost one more time,
or have yet to say this final goodbye.
If but the wasted hours could return,
and form some new-made day,
we’d walk together along seashores,
in which we alone would play,
and when the sun was setting,
in the last hours of that added day,
we’d hide ourselves in secret,
so that we’d never go away.