Moftah Al Ammari***
ترجمة غازي القبلاوي
Because I am from the sap of
the rough land
My father a logger of dreams
My mother a weaver of
promise
That gives birth to meaning
I won’t migrate
To another language
Flying like deceived ashes
Snatched between the wind mills
Above towers of smoke
Overwhelmed with delusional
joys
And the chatter of reckless
whims
And where ever my language
might wander
My song won’t fade
Over the skies of our homes
And the farms of our intimacy
And whatever mistakes my mother
makes
I won’t hang out the washing of
my days
On our neighbour’s clothesline
And my mother will remain
despite my bleeding wounds
Mounting the throne of my
imagination
As if she is a queen
And despite the sting of the
vile time
I will be drinking every
morning her bitter coffee
And no matter what
I will stay here
On this rough land
Hitting strongly my axe of
imagination
Extracting the poems from its
stony roots
Granting her my soul’s flare
And my heart’s wings of
usefulness
Over here I will mature my
intuition wine
Drinking my goblet
The moon will be drunk
And the shadows of my
companions dance
And when the ear of the night
sleeps
I explore the depths of my
walls
And overtake my guards
Hammering my pegs deeply
In the heart of the meaning
Thus the thrones of the planets
will rumble
And the hats of the stars will
fall,
The sun releases in the fields
of my poems
Herds of its gleeful horses
And because I am a soldier
Carried with the lightness of
eyes
Darkened with the scenes and
colours of thirsty deserts
With the colour of sand
watches
Broken by many defeats
With the colour of rain of
crows
And echoes of carcasses eaten
by the grace of negligence
With the colour of mass cheers
from the forests of killers
Despite all this
I won’t abandon the nest of my
children
And the poor shadow’s
retreat
And the vine of dew
I will remain over
here
Beneath the shady tree, like a
fountain of wise hoopoes
Chanting with the call of
dates
The twin of the genuine
copper
Braiding praise to the female
Princess of the trees
Stirring my knowledge to take
bunches of revelation
And sweep the dirt of the
wizards
And the spider’s webs
To expose the genitals
And mulberry leaves fall
O, how beautiful is this death
When the fist is victorious
with birds
And the juice of mysteries
And the galleries of poetry
becomes
Rich with visions and mines of
salt and wells
When my hands ember
Fades in the dough of clay
And I die over here
While my glass remains brimful
with the hymn
And my words, flocks of
clouds
Pasturing on my rough land
_____________________
* (عن مدونة (امتداد
** From the
collection Janaza Bathekha (A Lavish Funeral) 2002
*** Moftah
Al Ammari: born in 1956, a
renowned Libyan poet. Began writing short stories in the late 1970’s and by the
mid 1980’s he emerged as one of the leading new poets in Libya