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Stars and rains

Poem No.: 222 النص العربي: لا يوجد

In my mouth another mouth

Between my teeth other teeth.

O my parents . . . my people !

You who sent me into the world like a bullet,

Hunger, as a fútus, palpitates in my guts.

I nibble my cheeks from inside.

What I write in the morning

Repulses me in the evening.

The one that I greet around nine o'clock

I want to kill at ten o'clock.

I'd like a flower as big as my face

And a wide hole between my shoulders

to let all my memories burst out like a spring.


My fingers annoy each other

And my eyebrows are two confronting foes.

I want to twist my body like a wire

In a very desolate cemetery,

And fall down a fathomless well

Full of monsters, mothers and bracelets.


I just forgot the shape of the spoon

And the taste of the salt.

I forgot the moonlight

And the smell of the children

My guts are full of cold coffee

And blind water

My throat's crammed with scraps of paper

And blocks of ice

And you, stale water,

Fresh water . . .

You don't know how much

I love you.

With stiff collars up to the chin,

And with sticky lips

And strictly buttoned wrists,

We eat standing up

We stand too long

We strike the flies

With poems and handkerchiefs

In order to see a tree or a bird passing by.

With merciless small feet we lean on the ground

And we throw the ribs of the village

From street to street.


I used to climb the spiral stairs

As clean as cotton,

Lustrous as the leaves of the myrtle.

I go up and down like a murderer's dagger

With shoes of fame and shoes of hate

Hanging my misery on the nails of the wall,

My eyes penetrating deeply

Into distant balconies

And rivers returning from captivity.

I saw them all under the yellow sky.

The rich, the pacifists,

The poor and the monstrous.

I saw millions of teeth clicking in the street,

Millions of dim faces

Lowering their eyes under the thunder.

I saw hasty burials,

And the reins of barbaric horses burning in the streets

And workers falling from top floors

Buried carefully in the sad rain,

With their tobacco, their clothes,

And their mess tins.

But nothing is moving in the desert.

The wind whistles on the blood

And small tombs fall like dew

On hats and coats.


I saw canned breeze

And newspapers

Flung against the rain

I drank dirty water

And licked the foam wherein was the blood of the breast.

And I have never doubted this land

Which sleeps like a child,

This hunchbacked land, mounded like a butcher.

Through windows

And thousands of stars, corpses

And hammers of fire

I was looking for a mortal blow to my face

Looking for a small sea to use as shoes,

And an arrogant meal

Which I could fold under my arm like a scarf.

I got tired of the long stairs

And the rooms of victory.

I would like to roast the corn

And in the sunset eat the stone and the pebble.


I want to embrace anything distant

Whether a wild flower

Or a muddied shoe as large as an eagle.

I want to eat, to drink, to die

And to sleep at the same moment.

I am in a hurry, in a hurry

Like a mangy cloud,

Like a lonely wave chased in the sea.


Translated by Abdul Kader El Janabi

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