Why Did You Leave the Horse Alone? by Mahmoud Darwish Page A

day, the day we leaned on a language
    Which wasted its heart when it changed track. No one
    Said to Imru’ al-Qais: What have you done
    With us and yourself? So go on
    Caesar’s road, after smoke rising black from Time. Go on Caesar’s
    Path, alone, alone, alone
    And leave us, here, your language!

Successions for Another Time
    It was a rushing day. I listened to the water
    Which the past took and passed quickly on,
    Underneath,
    I see myself split in two:
    I,
    And my name…
    *
    In order to dream I need nothing: a little
    Sky for me to visit will suffice for me to see
    Time light and friendly
    Around the dovecotes
    *
    A little of God’s word to the trees
    Is enough for me to build with expressions
    A secure refuge
    For the cranes that the hunter missed…
    *
    How much did my memory have to preserve
    The names. How many mistakes did I make in the spelling
    Of verbs. But this star is
    My own making above the marble…
    *

    It was a rushing day. No one apologised
    For anything. The clouds of tall trees
    Did not fall on the street
    And blood did not flash above words
    *
    All is quiet at the meeting of the two seas
    Days have no data since today,
    None dead and none alive. No truce,
    No war on us or peace
    *
    And my life is in another place. It is unimportant
    To describe a café and chat between two forsaken windows.
    Or to describe an Autumn chewing
    Mastic in this crowd
    *
    …And in order to dream I do not need
    A large house. A little drowsiness of a wolf
    In the forest suffices for me to see, above,
    A sky for me to visit…
    *

    My life is in another place. It is not important
    That Chingiz Khan’s daughter in her pants should see it
    Or that a reader should see it entering into meaning
    As ink in darkness
    *
    It was a rushing day. Tomorrow was passing
    Coming from a tea party. Tomorrow we were!
    And the Emperor was kind to us. We were
    Tomorrow… witnessing the inauguration of the ruins…
    *
    Everything is quiet. It is not important
    To describe blacksmiths who did not listen to
    The tango, or the dead who sleep, as
    They slept and did not apologise to Master History…
    *
    For me to dream, I do not need a night like this…
    And a little sky for me to visit, will suffice
    For me to see time light
    And friendly,
    And to sleep…

…When He Walks Away
    The enemy drinking tea in our hut
    Has a horse in the smoke. And a daughter who has
    Thick eyebrows. A pair of brown eyes. Hair
    Long as a night of songs on her shoulders. Her picture
    Does not leave him whenever he comes to us asking for tea. But he
    Does not speak to us about her affairs in the evening, and about
    A horse left by the songs on the top of the hill… /
    *
    â€¦In our hut the enemy relaxes without the rifle,
    He leaves it on Grandfather’s chair. And he eats our bread
    As would a guest. He dozes a little on
    The bamboo seat. He strokes our cat’s fur.
    And he constantly says to us:
    Don’t blame the victim!
    We ask him: Who is that?
    And he says: Blood that the night does not dry… /
    *
    The buttons on his tunic shine as he leaves
    Good evening and greet our well
    And the fig trees. And tread gently on
    Our shadow in the barley fields. Greet our cypress
    On the heights. And do not leave the house door open
    At night. Do not forget that
    The horse is afraid of aeroplanes,
    And greet us, there, when Time allows… /
    *
    These are the words we would have liked
    To say at the door… he hears them very
    Very well, and he hides it with a quick cough
    And casts it aside.
    Why does he visit the victim every evening?
    And memorize our proverbs like us?
    And repeat our very songs
    About our very appointments in the holy place?
    Were it not for the pistol, reed pipe would blend with reed pipe… /
    *
    â€¦The war will not end so long as the earth
    In us revolves around itself!
    So let us be good. He asked us to be good here
    And read poetry to Yeats’s pilot:
    I do not love those whom
    I defend, as I do not