—after Darwish
Bright wind in a fleeting summer
and the leaves are white, white
and the sun is a ball of plated gold.
Don’t say that I know a field of high cotton.
I know nothing
of my country that has stumbled from the mountains to the sea
except my father’s coat
and the spine of the broken book.
Bright wind in an ill summer
and the flags are yellow, yellow
and the windows bloom in the water’s glare at midday,
and I am a cresting wave.
When will your violence smother me?
I know nothing
of this field of cudgels and dogs
except my father’s coat
and the worm in grandfather’s book.
Bright wind in a bright summer
and the sorrows are green, green
and the trees are chromed.
Don’t say that we’ve felt you in the brittle valleys,
sower of blasphemies, and potatoes!
My back is a tomb,
my wish is a tombstone
and I know nothing
of the country that begs forgiveness of its exiles
except my father’s coat
and the moths in the holy book.
Bright wind in a forgotten summer
and the waters are black, black
the door blow open for the leaden blast,
the leaves float down to a million little wants.
Two oceans rise between us, an isthmus,
a broken canal and a century of shaking hands.
My face opens when cut—
a twelve-sided stone, bombed and pitted—
and I know nothing
of the country that drowned me
except my father’s coat
and four corners of an open book.
Bright wind in a fleeting summer
and the leaves are blue, blue
and the sun is a ball of plated gold.
In the hidden courtyards my sisters sing,
the streets run thick with mudslide.
Do you want to know my country,
know what is between us?
My country puts hope in the museum,
the caress that I’ve given its cheek
and I know nothing
of the country that drowned me
except my father’s coat
and the spine of the broken book.