الرئيسية / ترجمات / Sleeping prince in a quiet boat packed with lanterns

Sleeping prince in a quiet boat packed with lanterns

From Arabic Dr. Yousef Hanna | Palestine
By Fathi Muhadub | Tunisia
(To the soul of the very dear poet, Mohamed Al-Sagheer Awlad Ahmed)
The obituary thunderbolt impinges
On my chest slab
Like two wretched trains colliding
In the soul tunnel crowded with victims.
Huge fire destroys head tower
Two deep sighs cross
The body heights.
I look like an old abandoned castle
Cursed summer lands on it
From the bricks of fire.
I peel the void like a rat
While the contrasts bark below
The hillside of the ankle.
Sophistical day drags me by my severed tail
As if I’m a wounded eagle
Overfills a deserted monastery with Squawking.
A sunny bird
Was run over by the mourners’ rattles.
His feathers fell to shreds
In the air holes.
What if this disheartened sparrow slips from the mourning fingers?
Not a single horse left
to keep fighting
Far from the burial margin
Where many dead sprouts
In its spacious hill…
Where nature is pure sunset.
Obituary hat slaps me
I flop (like a sea bow fish)
in a hunter’s trap
Tames his claws to receive
Drowned algae.
While our poor neighbor’s cloud is eating,
The light with a spoon
It was split into two transparent balconies
Taking leave of the prince’s childhood
Sleeping at the bottom of a boat.
While the globe looks like a frightened bird
Pursued by two transparent tears.
While the orchestra (The Grand Duke’s Owls)
A night funeral at the tops of words.
While there is an armed pigeon
Heartily wails
In the arms
Of an old aged pine.
My heart beats break like a stray duck
In a painful lake
Burned birds climb up
From my head nozzle
My face glass falls to pieces
Heavy and destructive…
My face that in its square
Night and Day Soldiers are fighting
As my feet sag
Like an old woman’s lips in the night watch,
Its last darker part
While my mother is clenching her fingers
Raising a flock of sorrows
In her personal museum…
While a dark lion is unloading his load
In a ferry…
My mouth is a well
Words rise from its depths
Like nuns in black garments
They don’t rush, but blowing like fireflies.
They travel miles of mourning
In the face icon…
My voice of a frightened ostrich flock
Freezes in the air…
This obituary granted me only a shot
In the heart
No one noticed the bush
Of this drooling erase…
The homey howling is attacking me
From the top of the balcony…
Two hurtful tears sting me as if
A renegade wasp builds a luxury apartment
In my face features…
The bilharzia dragon never fought me again
But the bitter darkness blew me away
And its very disgusting voice bit me…
My ungrateful dog – without proofs –
Is a straw figurine
Eaten by the farewell cinder during a nap…
I won’t let the overcrowded obituary with clouds
whose heart is teeming with bats,
To shed the gray of nihilism
In front of the family mirror
Or to turn off the orchid flower
With his personal mist.
Waiting for you a friend
Wielding Descartes’ sword
Your dead friend in childhood clothes
He never confessed to the Pope
waiting for you a friend
wielding Descartes’ sword
Your dead friend in childhood clothes
He never confessed to the Pope
About steady ground.
Whispering: The body is an orange garden
Guarded by a singing concierge
A Circassian prince is waiting for you
With rare jewelry…
Native Americans pull carts
Filled with silver and blessings.
A childhood awaits you, shines at the end of the corridor.
A god without claws.
Shoe wiper promised to the bat sounds of semiotic.
An old man’s grave barks all night long
Sleep does not take him until a cold moon raid him
Or until your hand cut off in war touches him…
A polite sun awaits you in the cafeteria
Cleans the absurd waiter’s hat
From the clamor of mob.
Has grandchildren sleeping downstairs
Under the rubble of oblivion…
They will never wake up…
Has daring beavers draw on contradictions
to the dinner table…
Has ungrateful ones in front of the laurel
Where a meek spider weaves
Transparent suit for the apostle
Where the shepherds wait for the brightness of proofs
Or for a miracle explosion from the fingers of a beggar…
A weary sun sitting on an old chair
Do not take, but give beautiful lamps to the blind.
Giant wings to hemiplegic patients.
A shoemaker awaits you, picking up the boots of the future
Sweeping evening mirrors
With his thick feathers
A subconscious mist lifts him to the horizon of sleep.
Waiting for you a cleaner
Firmly reflecting on the ridges of the fringe
Sweeps her bad luck
And her hands are pointed towards the blue hill.
Waiting for you
Zarqaa’ al Yamama over the bridge
She is haunted by the savage smell of coffee
Launches the bird of sight
In the spacious spaces and tells you a secret:
Your paradise that you made with your own great hands
Are teeming with flustered poets…
Broken poets are waiting for you
They fall into the abyss of erasure, one by one.
Nothing left but their psalms
Sings under a huge oak called Oblivion…
Our neighbor’s rooster
With a wooden voice full of curses,
Who drinks your poems in his solitude,
To become more rooted in modernity.
The remains of your royal death
Displaced by an episode of melancholia.
A sensual woman is waiting for you,
Fortified by metaphor power,
Absorbing light saps from the meteor nipple,
Gives you an inherent day
To mourn your coffin without a mediator
To her lush room…
Mysterious companions are waiting for you
They drink wine
While the words are maids distributing cups and bowls
They go to the hall of the past
On the tip of their ankles…
They fill their pockets with rainbows
And when they fly to the future
They ride strange ideas tracing out
Things scrupulously…
The Knower (Pythagoras) is waiting for you
Lurking around your house (the Radèsian)
He snatches light birds
And put them in cages that open by numbers…
Makes sweet waves of music
And distribute it to the blind…
Ascends the high levels of the soul
In his possession the number lights…
On your next birthday
There will be many servants
They do not speak, but they prove
They don’t sit, they shine…
(Pythagoras) will gift you his mathematical triangle
To be a proof of the world splendor…
A grave digger is waiting for you
He deepens the hole with his rusty teeth
While gout whistles in his joints
And showers him with very precious gifts…
I remember that this vast darkness has an isolated home in oblivion
He has a freed wife who was swallowed by a boa snake
In the sleeping rainforests…
A child being eaten by mourning wolves in the estuaries…
He has a friend worthy of the world enormity…
I remember that he had an empty face in the prime of the depression
Carried by two shoulders on both ends of the contrary…
Waiting for you
A walking cat grows up in oblivion
Isn’t seen much
Shared you the electric elevator in the military hospital.
His amazing eyes are scrutinized
In the angel of death face features sitting next to you
With the pomp of a sad Assyrian king
Blaring the Lord’s whistle
To carry you to your elegant home
Out of the world’s brawl…
Glory and immortality to you.

عن عالم الثقافة

ناصر أبو عون - رئيس تحرير جريدة عالم الثقافة

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