Maysara Salah El-din is an Egyptian poet, playwright and translator, with a publishing record that includes many poetry volumes, verse plays and musicals. He received several national and Arab awards. A number of his poems were translated into English, Italian and Spanish, and many of his plays were performed on stage. His translations include Kokoro, Barbara and The Bell Jar. His poetry collection Secret Numbers (2010) was recently translated into Spanish and appeared in print this year.
Yasmine Hussein is a lecturer at the Department of English Language and Literature, Faculty of Arts, Alexandria University. She received her MA degree in 2014 and her PhD in 2019, both in poetry. She was an Academic Visitor at the Faculty of English, University of Cambridge in 2016/2017. Besides academia, she has been working as a freelance translator since 2006, and a simultaneous interpreter in both national and international conferences since 2008. She is currently translating James Elroy Flecker’s play Hassan: The Golden Journey to Samarkand into Arabic.
المُخَيَّمُ
الحُزنُ يَنطق في الملامحِ
والقذائفُ فوقَ أضلاعٍ منَ الرُّؤيا تَنَامْ
عُريانَ يقفزُ ذا الفؤادُ مِنَ الأمامِ إلى الوراءِ
منَ الوراءِ إلى الزِّحامْ
الآنَ كُوِّرَتِ الشُّموسُ وسُيِّرَتْ
تلكَ الجبالُ مِنَ الصُّدورِ إلى الدُّروبِ
مِنَ الدُّروبِ إلى منازِلِنا: الرُّكام
الآنَ سُعِّرَتِ الجحِيمُ بما تَبَقَّى من ملامحِنا البريئةِ
من مشاعرِنا النَّقِيَّةِ من تَسابيحِ العِظامْ
الآنَ يظهر وجهُ (قابيلٍ) لنا
هَل ذاكَ وقتُ الموتِ أم فصلٌ جديدٌ للحيَاةْ؟!
هِيَ حِكمةُ العدلِ السَّجينِ
وقَبضةُ الموتِ الذي يأتي بِنا
دَوَّامةً وُلِدَتْ لِتَدْمَغَ في جُلُودِ الخِصبِ
آياتِ الغَمامِ بخاتمِ المأسَاةْ!!
لابُدَّ من موتٍ لِنُولدَ من جدِيدٍ
هَكذَا قد عَلَّمَتْنا الأُمَّهَاتْ
إذ في المُخَيَّمِ نَزرعُ الأحلامَ باليُمنى
وباليُسرى نَصُكُّ على الرُّخامِ دِماءَ (هابيلٍ)
وَصايانا القَدِيمَةَ والجَدِيدَهْ
ففِي المُخَيَّمِ لم نَجِدْ وقتًا لِنحزَنَ
إذ تُغادرُنا الحيَاةُ على عَجَلْ
سِكيَّنةُ الأحزانِ تسرقُنا فلم نَشعُرْ بها
لَم نَدرِ أنَّ الحُزنَ ذئبٌ
قد تَرَبَّى بين أغنامِ الأمَلْ
الآنَ يظهر وجه (قابيلٍ) لنا
كي ما يزُفَّ عَرُوسَةً للموتِ تَحملُها الملائكُ
فوقَ أجنحةٍ مُبَللَةٍ بدمعِ الطَّيرِ
تَجلدُ ظَهرَ أغصَانِ الزُّهورِ فَتَنحَني حُزنًا
لِتَرشفَ من ملامحِ أرضنا
نزفَ الفَجيعةِ والأَلَمْ
كي ما تَصِير الزَّوجةُ: الأنهارُ ... أَرملةً
يجفُّ الماءُ تَسقطُ جَنَّةُ الفردوسِ عَاريةً مِنَ الأوراقِ
تنتفضُ المَنابرُ بالدُّعاءِ
يكونُ جِسرًا يحملُ الشُّهداءَ
من رحمِ الخِيامِ إلى قصورٍ في السَّماءِ
فنُبصرُ الرُّوحَ الشَّهيدَ كأَنَّهُ
نورٌ ونارٌ فوقَ أجنحةِ العَلَمْ
إِنَّ القَنابلَ في المُخَيَّمِ وَقعُها .. إيقاعُها
يرتَدُّ في أُذنِ الرَّضيعِ
فَتَصعدُ الكلماتُ من فمِهِ البريءِ
يقول:"بُمْ بُمْ" ... قبل "بَأْبَأَةٍ" بها يعني "أبي"
هِيَ مُفرداتُ الحربِ يَحفظُها الرَّضيعُ
لكي تُخَزَّنَ في خلايا الذَّاكِرَةْ
نارًا .. خرابًا .. كُلَّ ما يُلقِي بنا من فوقِ أجبالِ العَدَمْ!!
فَصلَ الشِّتاءِ، نُدفِّئُ الأجواءَ من نارِ العدوِّ
مِنَ انْحِيازِ البرقِ للشَّجرِ التي باتَتْ خيامَ اللاجئينَ
بريدَنا اليوميَّ من خشبِ النُّعوشِ
مِنِ اشْتِعالِ القلبِ مِبخرةً وتحملُها السَّنابِلْ
إذ في المُخَيَّمِ نرتدي أَصواتَنا
عندَ الصَّلاةِ عباءةَ التَّوحيدِ
أَدعيةً تُرفرفُ حولَنا ضوءًا .. بلابِلْ
فَفي المُخَيَّمِ نَبتني وطنًا
دعائمُهُ مِنَ الأجداثِ
من نَوحِ الأرامِلِ
من نِداءِ الأبِ يا ولدي،
لِماذا غِبتَ عن صدري؟!
سَبَقتَ أباكَ
من سَيمُدُّ لي كوبَ الشَّرابِ إذا ظَمِئتُ
وَمَنْ إذا حانَ الرَّحيلُ سَيُسبِلُ العينينِ
مَنْ سَيُغَسِّلُ الجسدَ الذي
قد أرهقَتهُ الحربُ من ماءِ الدُّعاءِ
ومِنْ نِثارِ الغيمِ في الجُرحِ المُقَابِلْ؟!
اللهُ يرحمُنا ويرحمُ أُمَّةً كانَتْ عَمائرَ
نَاطحاتٍ للسَّحابِ
الآنَ قد أمسَتْ لِحَفَّارِ القبورِ
يدًا .. مَعَاوِلْ
الكي أَسهَلُ في مُعَالجَةِ الجُرُوحِ جَمِيعِهَا!!
لَكِنَّمَا تَبقَى جُرُوحُ الرُّوحِ في لاهُوتِها
رَهَبُوتِها بَعضَ الوَصَايا
مَا بينَ مِتْرَاسٍ وبابٍ لَم تَزلْ
كَفِّي تُتَرجِمُ صَفعَةً في مِشنَقَةْ
كُنَّا فَرَاشًا سَابحًا للضَّوءِ
لَم نَدرِ الحَقِيقَةَ أَنَّنَا نَسعَى لِحِضنِ المَحْرَقَةْ
إِنِّي شَرِبتُ مِنَ الرِّمَالِ دُمُوعَهَا
إِنِّي سَقَطتُ مِنَ السِّماءِ عَلى جُرُوحِ الأَرْضْ
لا شَارعٌ لِي فِيكَ يا وَطَنِي
ولا صَوتٌ يُرَدْ
لا عَينُ مَاءٍ قَد رَأَتْ عَطَشِي
ولا جُوعٌ يُصَدْ
لِي فيكَ ما تَرَكَتْ صُدُورُ الرِّيحِ مِن أَنفاسِ فَقدْ
لِي فِيكَ قَلبٌ ثَارَ أَجرَاسًا عَلى وَجَعٍ تَمَاثَلَ والخَزَفْ
لِي فِيكَ أحجَارٌ عَلى رِئَتِي تَقِفْ
لِي فِيكَ نَافِذَةٌ تُطِلُّ عَلَى دَمِي
لِي مَا تَبَقَّى في تُرَابِكَ مِن عِظَامٍ تَرتَجِفْ!!
لِي في هَوَاكَ رِسَائِلُ الأَموَاجِ .. طَاحُونُ الأَنِينِ
وبُرتُقَالُ الضِّحكَةِ الخَضرَاءِ مَا تَرَكَ الحَبِيبْ
لِي فِيكَ وَجهُ (يَسُوعَ)
صَوتٌ دُقَّ في كَفِّ الصَّلِيبْ
وَقَمِيصُ (يُوسُفَ) خَوذَةُ الجُندِيِّ
سَاقِيَةٌ تَصُبُّ عَلَى مَزَارِعِنَا الحَلِيْب
يا قدس يا وطنا تدثر باغتراب
لِي ضِعْفُ ما مَلَكَتْ يَمِينُكَ مِن عَذَابْ
لِي نِصْفُ ما ضَمَّ التُّرَابْ
لِي فِيكَ أَنتَ
وَأَنتَ لِي كُلُّ الأحِبَّةِ والصِّحَابْ
The Camp
Faces bespeak sorrow
And shells sleep on the breast of revelation
Naked, the heart jumps from the front to the back
From the back into the crowd
At present the sun is enfolded and those mountains
Are set in motion from the breasts to the trails
From the trails to our houses: the fallen rubble
Now hellfire is kindled with the remnants of our innocence
Of our chaste feelings and worshipping bones
Cain rears his face
Is it time to die or begin anew?
Tis the wisdom of jailed justice
And the grip of death that brings us forth
A vortex is brought to stamp the fertile skins,
The pregnant clouds with the seal of tragedy.
We must die to be reborn
Or so our mothers taught us
For in the camp we grow dreams with our right hand
And with the left imprint upon the marble with the blood of Abel
Our old and new commandments
In the camp we have no time to mourn
As life departs us in haste
The knife of sorrows robs us unawares
We didn't realise that sorrow is a wolf
Raised among the sheep of hope
Now Cain rears his face
To give away a bride to death, carried by angels
On wings wet with the tears of birds,
They whip the backs of flower branches that bend in grief
To drink from the lineaments of our land
The blood of calamity and pain
To render the wife: the rivers . . . a widow
Water dries up, Paradise sheds its leaves
Minbars erupt with prayers
Forming a bridge that carries the martyrs
From the cradle of tents to castles in heaven
So we behold the martyred soul as it were
Light and fire upon the flag’s wings.
The impact...the rhythm of bombs in the camp
Resonates in the ears of the suckling,
Words flow from his innocent mouth
Saying: “Bam Bam” before a garbled “Ba Ba” that means ‘father’
Tis the sounds of war the suckling retains
To store in his brain
Fire … ruin … all that hurls us from the mounts of nihility!
In winter, we warm the camp with enemy fire
With lightning targeting the trees that have become refugee tents
Our daily mail comes from the wood of coffins
From the heart ablaze as a censer carried by seedlings
For in the camp we wear our voices
At prayer-time as a mantle of uniformity
As prayers that shine and flutter around us … as songbirds
For in the camp we build a home
With pillars made of graves
And the wailing of widows
Of the father calling: “Son,
Why did you leave my embrace?
You’re gone before me
Who will hand me water when thirsty
And close my eyes when dead?
Who will wash the body spent by war
With the water of prayer
And raindrops in the adjacent wound?”
May God have mercy on us, on a nation that once towered
Touching the sky
That has now become for the gravedigger
A hand … a shovel
Cautery heals all wounds
Yet wounded souls retain in their divinity,
Their terror a few commandments.
Between the bolt and the door, my hand chokes
As if slapped by a noose
We were butterflies swimming lightwards
Not knowing we fly into the blazing pyre.
I drank the tears of sands
I fell from the sky on the wounded earth
O homeland, not one street is mine
And no sound resounds
No water-well senses my thirst
And my hunger rages still
What is mine are the breaths of loss exhaled by the winds
And a heart that chimed rebelliously against hardened pain
What is mine are stones perched on my chest,
A window overlooking my blood
And bones shaking in your remaining dust!
What is mine are letters from the waves … the moaning mill
The smiling, green oranges the beloved left behind
The face of Jesus
The sound of nails hammered into the cross
The shirt of Joseph, a soldier’s helmet
And a waterwheel streaming milk into our fields.
Jerusalem! My homeland swathed in estrangement
Mine is twice your suffering
But half of what your dust entombs
Mine is you
And you are all my friends and darlings true.
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