By: Giuma Bukleb*
So that the warmth of the morning sun can wander
In our fig and olive trees and in this country that
Knew peace before you occupied it
To savor, without fear, the taste of bread and oil
And restore, with hope, what you crushed of our dreams
So that our fear can rest for a moment
And our grass sleeps, for one night, without nightmares
And our palm trees extend its fronds’ shade without dread
And our skies breathe peacefully
And our sea wakes up from its nap to watch us standing, without you,
On the threshold of the morning
Waiting for it
May the nights bereave you
And take with you:
All what your cases gathered of our mothers’ tears
And the hatred you sowed in us
The remains of your ancestors
The scoundrels of your sons
The pegs of your tents
The woods of your gallows
The towers of your prisons
The barking of your dogs
The silk in you dresses
The glare of your cloaks
The majesty of your crowns
The milk of your camels
The atoms of air contaminated with your breath
Your images
The carnage of your heroisms and delusions
The corpses of the mercenaries that you hired with our own money, from every country, to kill us
The termites gnawing the wood of your speeches
Even the ululations, if they exist, that heralded you birth
Take it all with you and leave,
And let us…
* To read the original poem in Arabic click here.