Translation arab-english:
Sharif Elmusa and Charles Doria
Book: .........

Qassim Haddad

From blue sky birds come
Bearing bright kerchiefs in their beaks

From lilac sky moon yawns
Weary from not sleeping
Washing her face
In the water of wakefulness
Then sets to work

From azure sky the dreams of strong nations stir
Harnessing alert steeds to assert themselves

From the rose unfold the desires
That fold the banners of modesty
Unfurling the red flag
That breaks all established rule

From the joy I see in your eyes
I begin like a myth
Looking behind me
I find only swords
That wave like thickets
Of branches in the storm

When your cry assaults me
The current sweeps me away
Where neither ship nor shore
Can gather me in

I desire you
As the white does all colors.


Translated by: Clarissa Burt

He put his paw in the lake
like one dipping a quill in a well of words...
He wasn't of reed,
nor has Love a thing to grant:
Among beasts there is no wolf worthy of the loneliness
of snow.
He goes past...
taken by a stifled wail-
between him and home are Night and its Form,
Sleep and its latest dream.


He put their leg in the lake like which it submerged a tap in good of words... It was not of cane, nor has loving a thing to grant: Between beasts there is no worthy wolf of the solitude of the snow. It goes further on... of taken by choked lament-between him and the home is night and its form, dream and its last dream.

He claims to strike into the map of Man, announcing his trip, binding pacts with place;
Shackled spirit...
and for his tarrying, his body slackens,
limb by tom limb.
He counts Night vehicles,
opens Dream friendship to the- Stone: snow thicker than nature's bounty, Mountain messages in Night's quay,
lightweight stone,
swaying like books on a shelf.
Why do you postpone your going, when
you are not here?
None goes your extent but the Absent one, the
Consort of Caravans.
Why do you construct citadels, inhabit them, for visitors' fear to befall you, like the enemy?
Why isn't time enough for you,
why doesn't place suffice ?
Where'd you get all this desolation,
when you're an eden of blades?
Leave your hand in the lake,
spread a quillfeather to fly you away:
horizons broaden for you;
promised appointments are postponed
leave speech to its own devices -Write
nature reads your only snow.
He came crammed with crying,
no shoulder for him, no flow,
counting his shirts exhausted by excesses of the road,
cheating sleep at night lest the hand of distance extend to him When will he sleep light-hearted, wounded emotions still, streaming like an orphan, forgotten by bereaved mothers,
neglected by wetnurses?
He comes as if he will not go,
arranging the room's stones, preparing like a squadron
for attack
He spells out "Passage" as if in exile's gloom,
a wolf whose name has no letters,
whose lair is writing's outback,
loss of folk;
one deep in alienation,
announcing he is daring/bold.
He will go-
he will go because he came from nowhere,
he will go in order to confirm that "map" has a name
other than home and the keening of the reed-
take body from him, leave him soul,
make his trip not an emigration,
Wipe his lamp's glass with your mercy
so sleep befalls him,
sleep for one night, before death
and after.
Love, this is your consort;
take him:
lazy messenger between lake and sea.

Read More: