Darwīsh - Why did you leave the horse alone?

Copyright 2006 Archipelago Books English translation copyright 2006 Jeffrey Sacks Limadha tarakta al-hisan wahidan first published by Riad al-Rayyes, Ltd. Mahmoud Darwish, 1995 First Edition, Second Priting All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the prior written permission of the publisher. Archipelago Books 232 Third Street, #A111 Brooklyn, NY 11215 www.archipelagobooks.org Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Darwish, Mahmud. [Li-madha tarakta al-hisan wahidan. 1st ed. p. cm. cm.

ISBN 978-1-9357-4468-9 (alk. paper) I. Sacks, Jeffrey. II. Title. PJ7820.A7L513 2006 892.7'16 dc22 2005035484 Distributed by Consortium Book Sales and Distribution http://www.cbsd.com The edition of the Koran quoted in this volume is The Koran Interpreted, translated by Arthur J.

Arberry, Oxford World Classics, Oxford University Press, 1998. Cover art: Dont Forsake the Steed, Tamam Al Akhal This publication was made possible with the support of Lannan Foundation and the New York State Council on the Arts, a state agency. Translators AcknowledgmentsIf the translation of poetry may seem to be an act carried out by a solitary individual, this is so only insofar as one will never have lingered with a poem alone. I wish to thank Leila Zacharia for listening to early drafts of some of the translations in this volume. I wish to thank Sinan Antoon, Suhail Shadoud, and Maged Zaher for taking the time to read and comment on the manuscript, and for helping to untie knots. I wish to thank Aissa Deebi for designing the Arabic text and Suhail Shadoud for proofreading it.

I wish to thank Ammiel Alcalay for reading the entire manuscript and for offering suggestions. I wish to thank Elias Khoury for generously taking the time to offer guidance and answer questions. I wish to thank Avital Ronell for her support and generosity. I wish to thank Jill Schoolman for her integrity, kindness, and keen editorial eyes and ears. I wish to thank my wife, Leah, for her support, encouragement, and friendship, and my daughter, Leila, for her kisses. and you to meI look out on the trunk of an olive tree that hid ZakariyyaI look out on words that have died out in Lisan al-ArabI look out on the Persians, the Byzantines, the Sumeriansand the new refugees...I look out on the necklace of one of the poor women of Tagoreground beneath the carriage of the handsome prince...I look out on a hoopoe sapped from the kings reprimandI look out on metaphysics:What will happen... and you to meI look out on the trunk of an olive tree that hid ZakariyyaI look out on words that have died out in Lisan al-ArabI look out on the Persians, the Byzantines, the Sumeriansand the new refugees...I look out on the necklace of one of the poor women of Tagoreground beneath the carriage of the handsome prince...I look out on a hoopoe sapped from the kings reprimandI look out on metaphysics:What will happen...

What will happen after the ashes?I look out on my body, afraid, from a distance...I look out like a balcony on what I wantI look out on my language, two days laterA short absence is enoughfor Aeschylus to open the door to peaceA short speech is enoughfor Antonio to incite warA hand of a woman in my handis enoughto embrace my freedomand for the ebb and flow to begin anew in my bodyI look out like a balcony on what I wantI look out on my ghostcomingfroma distance...

They said:In my scream theres a caution that doesnt suit the abandon of the plantsIn my scream theres rain; did I wrong my brotherswhen I said I saw angels playing with the wolfin the courtyard? I dont remembertheir names. And I dont remember the way theyspoke... or the way they lightly flewMy friends shimmer like the night without leavinga trace behind them.Should I tell my mother the truth?I have other brothersBrothers who put a moon on my balconyBrothers who weave, with their needles, a coat of daisiesThey saddled the horsesThey didnt know whyBut they saddled the horses at the end of the night... Seven sheaths of grain are enough for the summer tableSeven sheaths of grain in my hands. And in each graina wheat field makes another grow. My fatherdrew water from his well.

Dont dry up, hetold it. He took me by the handto see how Id grow like rose moss...