Friday, July 29, 2005

The poem to My City by Iraqi poet Baland Haydari (my translation):
"It is said:
that our house is gloomy
it is said:
that our path
its green has been made
desolate by guilt
it is said:
that people in my city
the flame in their eyes
has dried up
It is said
the worst of what is said
Our house is gloomy
Shadows croak in its desolation
our path is strange
children have abandoned
its brownness
it is said:
the worse of what is said
that there are no men in my city
I know, my little city
oh, the sweat of men at noon
oh, the piece of bread on the mat
oh, little girl, a braid is woven in
its dreams
for a story of the prince to the princess
I know my city
how many wounds...bitter
bleeding under the broken
I know my city
what is behind our gloomy house
and what is behind its awful silence
what a future glittering in the roads
and that I
know oh, my city
that the eyes of men in my city
don't sleep
and that within their silence
a boiler is heating up
if it explodes
future will bow down before it"