A Wandering Boy With a Song In His Pocket - Part Ii
A Wandering Boy with a Song in His Pocket
Arabic Poem by: Salman Dawood Mohammed
Translated into English by:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
===========================
(5)
Just like the wind
I drive out loneliness of an empty bench for two...
And, like a curfew, I mourn pedestrians’ noise;
And as a shirt hanging on a laundry line,
I drip down, with all my moisture, on the surface of your days
And curse the cloud standing in the queue of ablution.
Then, I hate
Music,
The guards,
The law,
College students’ uniforms,
And astronauts;
And I dislike my life!
That all developed in the centennial commemoration of my wilting,
Amidst an assembly of militias and tambourines
Endorsing the funeral procession of my lamps
In the alleys
Of your absence.
***
(6) deleted
****
(7)
Housewives,
Hawkers,
The Ministry of love,
Tramps,
College youngsters,
Thieves,
Guests of No-Stars hotels,
Songs,
Traffic controllers,
Victims of the national anthem,
Train drivers,
Bin Laden,
Weather report announcers,
Gilgamesh,
Jurists,
Speech writers for the President,
Drunks,
And my mother,
All,
All shouted to my face:
“Don’t do it, O crazy! Or else you will die!”
But
O Glory!
I did it
And...
I fell in love with you!
***
(8)
Rest assured
After you, I wouldn’t be alone
A labyrinth is a home
And footsteps a family.
***
(9)
Your desertion, the deep rooted in wilting,
Is like a nail untouched by hammers;
Here it is, with its only sharp tooth,
Signing the deeds of tears
On the body of waiting.
Your painful desertion
Has pulverized me
Sincerely...
Hence, I saluted the remaining ashes of my burning with you,
Then
I lay on my blood
On
The heart of sunset
And
I ..... Died!
***
(10)
I loved you and went on
Just like a cloud skipping school.
I strewed my shirt buttons on your fields
And let down science class;
So my rain couldn’t be in a bottle anymore
And the road leading to you
Is no more a battle field
Or a bird market;
But
My soul is pouring down on you
And my hand
Stands
..
..
An umbrella.
***
(11)
The teacher said: “Draw a human heart.”
I laid a kiss on your palm,
And locked it in with the softness of your fingers.
The teacher is now in the recovery room
And I am
Accused
Of forgery.
****
Translated by: Em. Prof. Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
* Salman Dawood Mohammed. A poet from Iraq
Copyright © Inaam Al-Hashimi | Year Posted 2013
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