For the First Time Bullets Ask Us for a Handshake

Epic Composer: Hilal Al-Farie
Translator: Professor Dinha T. Gorgis

Preface to the Translation

I've always believed, as others do, that mathematics is first and foremost an ideal for perpetuated mental activity and, perhaps, philosophy comes second in that order. This thesis has held true, it seems, for centuries, but nobody has of date considered the translation of sophisticated poetry such as epics a bewilderment and hence as intricate as mathematical and philosophical problems for which solutions are sought. To my mind the translation of heroic poems, if not all poetry, is an enterprise that puts it on equal footing with both mathematics and philosophy. In fact, the pragmatics of refined poetry requires more complex cognitive processes on the part of the reader and much more inferencing on the part of the translator. The epic, which many Arab intellectuals have already appreciated on WATA site, took me months to translate into comparable English poetry.
It consists of 536 lines of free verse composed in a unique manner. Embedded in it are lines characteristic of classical Arabic poetry formatting, i.e. onset lines followed horizontally by coda lines which have the same rhyme all the way through. Since this mode of composition is absent in English poetry, I did my best to follow the Shakespearean pattern found in, e.g. his sonnets. That is, in the form of four-line stanzas as an approximation.

The translator owes much to a number of WATA members who have been the source of encouragement and inspiration during translating the epic into twelve interrupted parts.
Iman Al-Husseiny, the first who translated the epic shortly after publishing the Arabic version, is to be given much credit for her boldness. The poet's follow-up words and our co-reading of parts of the Arabic & English versions at the Jordanian Union of Writers on 21st June, 2007 have given me great impetus to finish the translation without much delay and hence being up to my promise. Sameer Al-Shannawi, Sami Khammou, Ahmed Al-Aqtash, and Rawiya Sami, among others, are to be acknowledged for their reading the epic in part and appreciating the work. Last, but not least, I reiterate here that the translation is meant to be for two kinds of audience: primarily educated speakers of English and, secondarily, students of translation & their instructors at Arab universities. Others, such as translation experts, are invited to forward their comments had the English culture been missed between the lines.

Professor Dinha T. Gorgis,
Jadara University for Graduate Studies,
Irbid, Jordan.
For enquiries, send to:

Background to the Epic

In 1989, on the occasion of the second anniversary of the first valiant Palestinian uprising, I recall that a correspondent of some satellite station was conducting a survey concerning the gains of the turmoil and concomitant events. She interviewed a little boy who seemed to me to be around ten as had been indicative of his facial expressions and tone of voice.

The correspondent asked him: "What has the uprising achieved so far?!!!!!!." The boy paused for a while then replied: " The Intifada is going on and it won't stop". The boy and his answer are still fresh in memory; an unforgettable scene. On his skinny face summer sweat went down profusely as if it marked the border of the native land. Unforgettable is also his shirt whose colors greatly faded away..!!! The correspondent went on asking him: " Haven't you got tired from the soldiers persecuting you?!!" He answered courageously: " No. I haven't, and I won't, not even after another hundred years". He added: "I am not tired, but I yearn to take a nap. I haven't slept for two years now."
That interview and the image of the brave boy haunted me for several months. Whenever I started to compose a poem describing that episode, I would kick it up and throw it in the bin because I've been fully aware that the whole image & its background cannot be depicted by any conventional poem. However, the challenge was greater; I gave in and started writing part of my recollection which took me a period of over six successive months, or more.

For the First Time Bullets Ask Us for a Handshake

Two years though passed all our years green turned out,
And moisture to souls 'n pens life brought about.
It's your hand which ethically started the calendar;
It's you who we envisage as a history maker.

Two years have passed…He never slept.
Vigilant he is; the opium of sleep failed to tempt,
Nor even the tears of pain dared to bet.

Two years elapsed…
His hand, held up for defense, never twisted.
He's been always on alert, though resisted.
And blood-shed along the lanes to refugee camps is registered.

Imagine how often he's been lashed;
Imagine how bones the stick deeply slashed.
Still he magnified the vision as he grew up,
Never yielded to the guards who bet to catch him up,
And remained steady, ready, and nay to give up.

As evening approached, birds flew to their abode,
And long night his pillow schemed to rob.
He could vision the naughty star orbiting the clouds for a ride,
And insisting to keep company by his side…
The star sighs, and its murmured words flew:
I pray he on the chest of fatigue his body threw.
He does have the right to get some sleep, doesn't he?
At least a nap, doesn't he?
For in the face of atrocities fair it'd be!!

Time into his prayer place steps
To jerk in his nerves the will of rocks.
Equally so, time its cuffs unlocks
And rotates kindling at doorsteps.

Oh, sleep! Please pay him a visit…
It's been two years You he has missed
Were he to put the lamp out,
Darkness daughters might take him to bed
If he also stopped meditating the stars ahead.
Oh, sleep! Do pay him a visit…
It's been two years You he has missed.
Along blocked roads, slumber into oblivion has he brought!!
If only had he put the lamp out…
What would the banners lose if he took a nap,
And then did the "We're Back" prayer?!
Would poets pardon him for the nap
While reviewing historical facts?!
Would they hijack his sleepless eyes,
Or compose poems over his agonies,
And break into his privacies?!
If only poets did put out their fire…
Slingshots would surpass their poetic attire.

Two years have passed... Sleep is but a wish to make..
And peace has, for the first time, been chasing us!!
And for the first time bullets ask us for a handshake.

Oh, warrior! Thou art Home uniting,
Embellishing our horizon with yearning.
Though the jury their verdict reads: Freedom found guilty!
It's the bleeding necks that'll for freedom remain lofty.

Oh, conqueror of all heart attacks!
We're still much alive,
Though bones crack under stick strokes 'n fire.

We're still much alive;
And though chests running bullets receive,
Our flags keep fluttering in the breeze.
Here we are; much alive!
So blessed be those whose necks
Defused what gallows produced!!!

Two years have passed..
We are the richest of all the dead, and the poorest of all the living.
We, standing by the lips of the sea,
Were once swallowed by water which drove us ashore;
But we today drink the very water that now cries out:
Both our wounds are a salinum which thirst would abhor.

Here we are, announcing in public:
That dust would embrace the dead,
If the life they lived hadn't been full of zeal;
A life impenetrable by agonies or ordeal.
And only if did they let their sweet dreams off agitation,
Our threshing floors would hug in celebration,
When the harvesting day dances in jubilation,
And the tall wheat kernel kisses its shade in exultation,
Let alone the lovers' eyes glittering at evening chat narration.

The dew on the face of vineyards was having a nap.
On the wings of birds dreaming of a sweeter season,
And on a blossoming tree branch up high,
Was the dew flirting with the moon in the sky,
While the earth knows well it's been the eye tears waiting by winter avenues,
Ready to run as sparks with no much ado.

He's still planting and death toll mounting;
His hand, set against the upcoming, is so carving
That death in his steady foot turned staggering,
And all that remained for Home was a grip unyielding.

It's been the dew in view…
Under the rain falls the unknown we foresee,
We lay a stone upon a stone,
And throw back the bullets
Twice as many onto shooters to us known.

A flag tossing other flags,
The blood of silence strikers tags,
And their dream flag would shatter
The nightmare of nothingness for ever.

A step followed by another,
Would the distance between hostile exile and Home set on fire,
And our bodies shall have ONE attire,
Sharing the taste of ports, ****ters, and decay.
Let them all in one coffin pray:
We shall rebirth be given one day;
By a flag, stone, and enflaming verse,
Not to mention sacrifices and tombs.

From an outcry,
Patience did you glean, and on our path
Burnt got a song
Once our ancestors chanted,
And a lock raped our necks.

Pleasant is death when sealed by life 'n anthem!
Here we are, born anew…
And tears of those at the phantom stops shed over the dew,
Ask arrivals at the border:
Where've you come from?... No answer.

On lips the query turned rusty, and questions ceased to ask.
Their vision, immersed in a pool of tears, took them far away,
And was right back to wipe up the mess of destruction.
Where to begin an answer against a frameless question?
Ah, the distressed alien! Too much love is his death if stayed alive,
And much of a life will he be given if muse over Home is the drive.
His steady looks at the pale stars get fixed,
And pulled apart, intents for fleeing turn his feelings mixed.

He used to have a 'spout'
Which at thirsty game birds she frowned.
Will he now apologize for such naughtiness,
And let them drink from his palm filled with tears?
His dreams of her never ceased;
It was his 'spout'; she'd been in a complete maze!

Ah! If only had he put the lamp out…
Could he boredom and sleeplessness knock down,
While the hostile exile reminds him of his copybooks filled with lilies and flowers?
If danger was not ahead of the road, exchanged were the greetings;
Otherwise, deterred was he,
Unless a message to carry under dark was he entrusted;
A message in-between the trembling pages,
Handed over by an all-knowing Hand.
What could happen if she's ever seen?
From a dream-like at the threshold she wished to wake up,
And to leave for good…But,
Such a task, among the mates, is her daily bread.

If only could he put the lamp out…
But could he, while possessed by her footsteps once set to task,
As if the road drank and conceal her,
And follow her with all his soul filling her?!

Uh, an alien agonies when exile hurts too much,
And when it chokes while striving to house it in the heart!
His tears he'll remain combating,
And with him the tears will be wrestling,
And sleep he'll keep pretending.

Dare he put out the lamp?
He dare not;
For fire in the ego lights up the eminence of the past,
And gives life to sleeplessness.
Still determined is he to keep it ablaze and feed it with ash,
And still every care does he take to put it out with trash.

Two years have elapsed…
How many years to pass through time do we need?
And if we do pass through,
How many ages to go back Home do we breed?
And if we can make it,
How many homelands do we in return get?
It's elementary maths…
But at us digits frown,
When on our way to Palestine, the Homeland, we fall down.
On magic stones to the moon they ride;
And like the hurricane at the horizon out they gush.
For better or worse with each other they compete and side;
And if fate ever shows up, into it forth they rush.

Two years have just gone…
Forget the oldies; for all are years of starvation.
O, the Homeland of stones amassed and of tears forced to come down!
O, the Body endowed with forearms and candles!
You'll remain bleeding as long as mount feet are trodden.
There can be no way to the summit,
Unless on corpses of armour.

Who dare say that at daylight death claims the dead,
While on lips the lights they plant have a say?
You'll keep bleeding… But go ahead;
For the land its planters knoweth well once their heads on soil they lay,
Or when bodies to death after death tribute at the iron edge they pay,
Once the graves yawn but have a word in the ear to say.

Why have the eyelids ceased blinking?
That who injured them is displaying,
Dead bodies despair can instead wrap up;
Even if astounded by fire, they won't wake up.

Though bleeding you'll remain…On you go.
Deafen your ears when pains scream.
Never mind the wounds even if serious they seem.
Aside all injuries you ought to throw,
And the shackles behind the ribs off to blow.
Go on… give your hands a go;
For dawn smeared with blood is soon to come up.
Long you've waited, and by cheer bullets burnt you got.

Two years have passed…
Shores are but the shores,
And on beaches the bleeding expatriates sea is unable to wet,
Nor is it able to sooth their utterly dry necks.
O, the fallen down on mount slopes! Take it easy;
For six years to follow will be lean and uneasy.
Hand-cuffed the sea shall be,
And no supplies in the grip of the clouds but mirage you can see.

O, the fallen down one by one! Hold fast!
Life was made out of dust;
So still hold fast,
And never lay your martyrs under dust;
For when they fall down,
They're not dead.
Don't burry them; for in their noble descent lie all expellees' dreams,
And on mounts, plains and pass roads shall they sprout.
They'll bud orchestrated neighs of running horses to orange fields.
They'll endow life to stones sweeping off their way, like the lightening, whatever suspects.

About the beginnings and ends of the episodes you'd better not ask;
For, does the traveling time through tears dare to ask?

What do we see? Have colours gray-haired grown
Or tops of heights with shrouds crowned sown?
No wonder! This whiteness covering the peak
Is but for the lads sacrifice chops which speak.

Two years have passed…
And night is still aborting sunrise ornamented with songs 'n life.
It's been two years…
And the furious stone is still the crippled night driving away;
That night which in darkness remains drowned.
What're we to say to the wounded dawn if we by wound grounds stand best?!
What space in our eye sockets to bury our depression has been spared?
What space to shroud it with our eyelids, and get sufficient rest?

It's but a slaughtered Home…
Whose martyrs facing bullets
Seem to flee, out of weariness, and roam.
And their blood is about to cry:
"Ah!", among its passers-by.
Ah, the Homeland whose name throats articulate but is unseen!
Ah, the Homeland whose name on lips, in the media, at tables is circulated,
And off the open praying hands enunciated!

But can there be a home for those who deserted saddles and chose to lie in tombs
To feed the worms of graves their swords,
And bring to life toes of the hoof buried under the shields?!
Could there be a homeland for those who dare not their dream spell,
Nor dare they write it in the horizon on an eloquent stone?!

They sprinkled us with their fragrant blood
Which embellished the horizon ahead.
That which lies in the distance is their blood
But oft we call it a twilight saturated red.

Two years have passed…
And crowds of those smashing worries and riding the stars
Are still paving the road overlooking a rebellious morrow,
So that our next march can safely follow.
They came out cheering us; they meant to challenge us.
Will we the time bomb of fear in us defuse?
Will we the thick dust of our ditches' sad sections shake off,
Or search amidst our blind-folded cities for a city
That neither is able to lick history out of the blue,
Nor can its damned carrion chew and re-chew?!

They come forth cheering us…
On their faces chants of wounds sailing to our barren ports were drawn;
They out of darkness meant to pull us,
And off the heads of defeat banners to chop.
Our drowsiness by surprise they take.
They pull us out of surplus exile,
And of our old funeral essence.

They challenged us at the foremost line;
Their stones they picked up and by-passed our nap
To materialize a dream put off at the court of those held responsible for spring wounds
We, behind the wind, jubilated as they marched,
And stared long at their last slingshots,
Which, rain-like, released our hopes once on hoarfrost got thickened.
They challenged us…
And the jugglers, guilty of drifted memories, under our auspices did amass.
No power can eliminate them if the body imagination burdened.

Of our cellar planted in the liver of departure came the forenoon,
But breathless remained our tune
Which could've delusion entrenched in our passionate hearts removed,
And rivers under patriotic banners among us split up
Beyond limits and any justification made up.

Morning comes to light reddened by dawn, loaded with deep wound 'n laughter,
And by poets' rapture; for they their songs are after,
Not to mention verses chanting blood 'n fire.
Daybreak comes to light adoring
Surviving birds in hands;
Remaining smoke in bands,
And a residue of averted clouds on track soaring,
Which tell passers-by the Tale all the way long.

They came out cheering us… They came out challenging us.
Will darkness fiercely seizing the rage of the drowned die down?
Will sorrow traveling along our exile growing
On the silence of blood, ports 'n ****ters end?
Out of passionate love bodies fall on soil mixed
With blood, prophecy, and longing for lights,
Then convert on fruity fields into stones
Amassed on a table facing our forearms
Stretched to pick up whatever size we like.

When daylight approaches,
On strike weapon dealers go;
Yet content are we with our bones:
By them we harvest what's been left of grain ears 'n pride.
Two years have passed…
Our sweet dreams the wailing flute and long journey mate,
And we our scary maze start out;
An echo of departure into horses' steps is brought about.
In every song we sing there's a string
That refreshes whatever hymns before unheeded;
For we, in every caravan, got a leader
Who, from a remote zone to the distant, sends a signal.

Morning comes hugging nothing but unyielding arms
Which winds sailing to madness take the route
To our newly branded names.

Were he to put out the lamp,
Who else would then fuel exile,
Jump into darkness clothing the songs of siege,
And bring moonlight back to the threshing floors and gold reflections?
No one else, but him, could stop martyrs on way and tell them
The tales of bloodshed stirred up behind them,
Re-tell what'd been told by those who followed their suit,
And brief them about the current ups 'n downs!
Who else has not put out the lamp yet and gone astray
Between the delusions of the right and inspirations leftists betray?
Who else, but we, could wounds without dresses sustain?

Two years have passed…
Can we trust that we frame 'n margins behind our back put without backing,
Or believe our eyes that we're back to stone picking
From the deadly exile…to al-Khalil… to Safad?!
And from agonizing journeys to neighing,
And from dreariness to patience?

It's been two years…
Here's our field, covered with genuine ailing grain ears,
While our hand sickles, pickaxes, fires and hailstones forebears.
It's been two years…
Here's our field, adorned with the blood of sickle user.
This is our noble descent,
Mocking sessions run by chains, bombs and gallows,
Playing on palm tree leaves musical solos,
And plenty more on idle branches,
Rehearsing al-Khalil nightingales' poetic metres,
Varying in rhyme 'n rhythm beyond imagination.

It's been two years…
Is the traveler back,
Or has his track gradually set back?
Have his lungs sailed,
Or at the ports stayed
To take in some rebellious air?
Two years is a summary of dreariness history
That lies between bullets' smell and colour of death running away from morrow's taste,
Or away from the taste of voice scary of morrow's colour.

It's been two years…
Who's that heading by night to stone quarry horses,
To ration what we of massacres 'n dissipation can see?
A portion of the standard language in his will is still retained,
And a size of the sun's breath facing the foam maintained.
On his face are drawn concerns with disintegration,
Desire for goal visualization,
And repletion with madness and hastiness.

Just guess: Who this defiant fellow heading
To the den of death might be?
His hand holds a stone,
While some traitors 'n aggressors of his race plant a field of mines.
O, knight of the lofty height!
Behold your track, filled with gunpowder,
And tracking your footsteps!
O, the desert guardian!
For how long are you to stay dead and be back to life
So that you tell us all about the worries of those in graves?

It's been two years…
Who your identity disclosed on platforms at daylight?
Those hasten you so that in both hands you split them up.
Get your hand ever ready…
If you to tribal auctioneers give a handshake,
You're free to speak up,
And to the philosophizing tribes you're not meant to give an ear;
For your hands are mightier than any tongue
That finds the difference between shot and dead mouths unclear.
You're free to speak up;
For you belong not to the mass of voices
Made audible in inarticulate languages.

Two years have passed…
Who'll try to decode the essence of a wounded flag?
Or, who'll attempt to see us the way we are,
When momentous fears storm us far?
Off our backs we here drag
A mount of weariness up by time piled,
And deaden any heart beat of ours
That does not death put off
Even for a few hours.

We here our shadows dash out to be out of sight;
To be free from our dreams 'n flee,
No matter how radiant their circles heavy steps of the dead draw.
We fancied a dream that could our own steps decipher 'n see,
And search for better circles at all its might.

We here move from our cemeteries to courtyards,
Equipped with cultivated pens 'n polished swords,
And move on…starting from facts 'n figures,
Crossing out all that relates to "Kuleib and Jalila" tribes,
And taking by any palm
That abhors to be incited by agents!!

It's been two years…
Smiles we still exchange
To swing back 'n forth the stabs sustained.
We're still fighting using stones, air 'n fires;
The land covers us up when uncovered,
And when danger is much of a challenge.

It was the dew…
By heart the soil has learnt its taste;
It can't miss it even when the good tidings it carries get mixed,
And its long journey turns out to be non-fixed.
How passionately the sand for the rain looks!!
How passionately the sand for the rain looks!!

It's been two years…
How to classify years already filling up our slots,
And turning their daggers away from stabs 'n plots;
How to get through our bodies,
To string the remaining yawning wounds and others hiding?
Any way to go for a hug,
To put an end to boredom deeply dug?
And to go back Home for long sung?

From palm to palm rhythm grows;
Passed from one to a thousand in rows,
And from pain to dream it goes
While barely felt by others, but we
In case a nap its own vision raided
At a time of a rubber bullet sizable,
Or colour of a live bullet comparable.
And while madly splitting up fates at random,
Rhythm escalates from mere voice to death, then to rise;
And all that said about death timing gets mixed up.

It's a dream embracing a Kufic shawl on head,
It's a hand drawing on the chest of the unreachable air on bed
A Home, as majestic as dusk and dawn-like painted.

Rushing is the name of the game;
Raiding the winds at the threshold of their dreams must be the aim,
And a rush for Home they're right to claim.

A Home resigned silence typified
By fabulous mythical blood purified
Even when by swaying wind afflicted,
They say: We're here, wind! Get tilted!!

From boredom to stone tempos jubilate;
And, on breaking down, their kisses on road cheeks germinate.
Ardent love sprouts as the young girls step along,
With the intent of journeying long,
Supposing the road to be free from those hunting,
Bringing down the hands which kept sunrise blocking,
And fast spreading sweet chanting.

From a tunnel to horizon the slingshot is set to action
To clear the way to the sun's mansion;
To set steps onto morrow's path:
The path of defiance 'n wrath.

It's been a dream embroidering a Kufic scarf.
It's been a hand breaking our stalemate with time eruption.
It's been a dream carried by two hands flying in every direction ,
Evoking the unknown from its nest bands,
And gathering up clouds in their hands
To bring serenity into the eyes of the daisy.

It's been the dew in view…
O, the smeared with blood from tip to toe! Echo's lost!

Time abounded and broke soil into bits 'n pieces;
Into green bullet-like stones turned the thesis,
Snatched fiercely by fingers arms upheld,
Bathed in blood and shot at troops in bed.

It's been the dew in view…
Never look back; the echo's dead.
A dream set ablaze on flag tops spread,
And at any inlet 'n outlet a prison camp turned a dread.
They rush to you for a statement, a mouth hint, and kisses.

It's been the dew in view…
O, the unrivalled hands in the face of space!
Two things in you mate when the slingshot is in place.
Two things in you conflate when the foe is your case.
Two things in you are to each other true:
The bullet and uniqueness
Which radiate around you filtrating blood 'n smoke,
Gravitating sympathy and dismay,
And a death notice crowned with grief 'n glory.

(Our martyr the X's 'n Y's and all our people deeply condole..
Rejoiced be our nation at the wedding of the first thousand martyrs..
Our word we give to follow the martyrs' suit..
Consolation to be received… New arrivals to be conceived..).

Two things in you joined forces at the outset
Whenever your hands got upset:
Their own bullets… and our consolation.
And in praise of you, the poets' lyrics
Cry out in want of a more solid arm,
And we in the banners of strikes, condemnation and history find charm.
Could there any other meaning lie behind your waiting
Than just the meaning of waiting?

O, the carrier of truth burden in one hand,
The wounded facts in another,
Not to mention my blood and loads of thither habitation..
How many hands in our desert shall you stretch
So that your spirit like clouds 'n fire goes high in jubilation?!
How many times shall your soul glitter by the blaze of darkness
To please the day and tomorrow we fetch?!

Two years have passed without a sleep..
At the exits and entries the wall's still going high.
Those around you rush theorizing, interpreting, and bidding great chances.
Would you believe what at banquets is told,
Or rather believe what eyes behold?
Do you ever see anything else but stone and death?
It's been the dew in view…

Two years have passed…
Will we keep bleeding forever?!
You're all rushing backwards, but we alone
A sky without pillars onwards we shape.
Let whims, potency, currency,
And night parties perfumed with give-away gifts be all yours..
No grudge!
Tethered are the horses…Spoiled are the swords;
Unbeatable is huge oil;
Unrivalled are maneuvers that well sound,
And intelligent agents abound.
No grudge!
You have your own way of life…No envy!
But let our dream be met
At the hands of a lad,
And leave for us what you most resent;
For we the fruit of dreariness worship best.
On a tent peg shall pigeons lay
You and your cheap talk.. We are Home owners;
Into it we shall move the way we see
After our incisors have grinded palm fibers,
And our feet face of the impossible penetrated
While no one us permeated!!

You see, this is what the palm of ordeal endowed;
A cute stone unbeatable by drowsiness
Impair your hands if pillowed by drowsiness
And cut into rocks hands courage bestowed.

Two years have passed away…
How many years do we need
To pass through time?!
And if we do pass through,
How many ages do we breed
To set foot on the threshold of a home?
And if we can make it,
How many homelands suffice
To get in return?
It's elementary maths…
But at us digits frown,
When on our way to Palestine, the Homeland, we fall down!!!

Dinha T. Gorgis
Translation finished by 12.8.2007 in Amman, Jordan.

للمرة الأولى يصافحنا الرصاص من الأمام!!

شعر: هلال الفارع

ترجمة إلى الإنجليزية: البروفيسور دنحا طوبيا كوركيس

خلفية الملحمة

في العام 1989 ، ولمناسبة مرور عامين على الانتفاضة الفلسطينية الأولى الباسلة، أذكر أن مراسلة إحدى الفضائيات كانت تُجري استطلاعًا حول مكاسب وأحداث الانتفاضة.. فالتقت صبيًّا في العاشرة من عمره، أو هكذا يبدو من طبقة صوته، وبراءة تعابيره.
سألته المراسلة: ماذا حقّقت الانتفاضة حتى الآن؟!!!!!!! صمت الصبي، وقال: " الانتفاضة ماشية، ومش رايحة توقف "!! لم تزل صورة ذلك الصبي ماثلة أمامي، بل لم تغب عن بالي أبدًا، بوجهه النحيل، الذي خطّ فيه العرق الصيفي حدودًا، كأنها حدود وطن، وبقميصه الذي غابت ألوانه كثيرًا..!! سألته المراسلة: ألم تتعب من ملاحقة الجنود لك؟!! قال – بعنفوان –
" لأ.. ما تعبت، ومش رايح أتعب لو مية سنة أخرى "!! وأضاف: : أنا ما تعبت.. بس أنا ميت من النّعاس، صارلي سنتين مش نايم"!!!!!!!!!!!!
هذه الصورة، وتلك الكلمات لاحقتني شهورًا عديدة، وكنت كلما هجمت علي القصيدة أطردها بسرعة، لأنني أعرف أن الصورة الكاملة تلك أكبر من أية قصيدة لغة، وأدق بناء وهندسة.. لكنّ هروبي لم يفلح، فأذعنتُ، وكتبت ما تيسّر منها على مدى ستة أشهر متتالية، وربما يزيد...

عامان ِ، وا خْضََرَّتْ بك َ الأعوامُ وابْتَلَّتِ الأرواحُ والأقـــلامُ
ها نحنُ نبْدَأُ مِنْ يديكَ حِسابَنـــــــا لَكَأنّما بُدِئتْ بِكَ الأرقـــــامُ

عامانِ مَرَّا... لم يَنَمْ
عَيْناهُ صامِدَتانِ ما أَغْوَتْهُما خَمْرُ النُّعاسِ،
وما تَرَجَّلَ منهما دَمْعُ الأَلَمْ
لم يَهْدَأْ جُنونُ يَدَيْهِ.. لم يُرْهِقْهُما الكسرُ.. التَّمَلُّخُ،
لم تَقِفْ قَدَماهُ عن نشْرِ النَّزيفِ
على الشِّعابِ المُفْضِياتِ إلى تَباريحِ الخِيَمْ
كمْ باغَتَ السَّوْطَ المُرَوِّعَ جِلْدُهُ،
واسْتَعْذَبَتْ حَرَجَ العِصِيِّ عِظامُهُ،
ومضى إلى رُؤْياهُ في كِبْرٍ.. وكمْ
خَذَلَ النَّواطيرَ الَّذينَ يُراهِنونَ على تَدَفُّقِهِ..
وما خَذَلَتْهُ كَفٌّ أو قَدَمْ!!
سَكَنَتْ عَصافيرُ المساءِ،
وَأَوْشَكَ اللّيلُ المُطَوَّلُ أَنْ يَنامَ على وِسادَتِهِ،
أَحَسَّ بِدَوْرَةِ النَّجْمِ المُشاكِسِ يَمْتَطي ظَهْرَ الغُيومِ،
ولا يُفارِقُ ظِلَّهُ..
لَفَظَ الأخيرَ مِنَ التَّنَهُّدِ:
ليتَهُ يُلْقي بِقامَتِهِ على صَدْرِ التَّعَبْ..
مِنْ حَقِّهِ أَن يستريحَ
– ولو قليلاً –
من أَكاليلِ الغَضَبْ!!

يمضي الزّمانُ إليهِ في مِحرابِهِ لِيَقدُ َّعَزْمَ الصَّخْرِ مِنْ أعصابِهِ
وكَذا الزّمانُ .. يَفِرُّ مِنْ أغْلالِه لِيَدورَ مُشْتَعِلاً على أَ عتابـــــِهِ

يا نَوْمُ زُرْ..
عامانِ مَرَّا لم ينَمْ!!!
لو يُطْفِئُ المِصباحَ..مَنْ يَدْري،
فقد تُلْقيهِ أَخْيِلَةُ الظَّلامِ إِلى المنامِ إذا تَمَلَّصَ
مِنْ مُقارَعَةِ النُّجومِ على الأُفُقْ!!
يا نَوْمُ زُرْ..
عامانِ مَرَّا لَم يَنَمْ!!
نَسِيَ النُّعاسَ على مَتاريسِ الطُّرُقْ!!
لو يُطْفِئُ الِصْباحَ...
ماذا تَخْسَرُ الرَّاياتُ لو أَغْفى قليلاً،
ثمَّ قامَ إلى صلاةِ العائِدينْ؟!
هَلْ يَغْفِرُ الشُّعَراءُ غَفْوَتَهُ
إِذا مَرُّوا بِميراثِ السِّنينْ؟!
هل يَخْطِفونَ النَّوْمَ مِنْ عَيْنَيْهِ،
أم سَيُعَلِّقونَ على كَآبَتِهِ قَصائِدَهُم،
وَيَسْتَحْيونَ هَدْأَتَهُ الحَرامْ؟!
لو يُطْفِئُ الشُّعَراءَ..
ماذا يَخْسرُ المِقلاعُ لو خَمَدَ القليلُ مِنَ الكلامْ؟!
عامانِ مرّا.. لو يَنامْ.....
للمرَّةِ الأولى يُطارِدُنا السَّلامْ!!
للمرَّةِ الأولى يُصافِحُنا الرَّصاصُ مِنَ الأَمامْ!!

يا فاَِلقاً وطََناً مِنَ الأعْـــراق ِ وَمُطَرِّزا أُفُقاً مِنَ الأشْواق ِ
حَكَمَ القَضاءُ، فليسَ مِنْ حُرِّيّةٍ إلا إذا نَزَّتْ مِنَ الأعناق ِ!!

يا صارِعًا أَلَمَ الْخَوافِقْ
ها نَحْنُ أَحياءٌ،
بِرَغْمِ هَشاشَةِ العَظْمِ المُهَشَّمِ بالعِصِيِّ وبالبنادِقْ
ها نحنُ أَحياءٌ،
وما كَفَّ الرَّصاصُ عَنِ الصُّدورِ،
وما تَنَكَّسَتِ البيارِقْ
ها نحنُ أَحياءٌ،
فطوبى للّذينَ تَكَفَّلَتْ أَعْناقُهُمْ
... إِبْطالَ مَفْعولِ المَشانِقْ!!!

عامانِ مَرَّا..
نحنُ أَغْنى الميِّتينَ، وأَفْقَرُ الأَحياءِ،
نحنُ الواقفونَ على شِفاهِ البحرِ،
كانَ الماءُ يَبْلَعُنا وَيَلْفُظُنا،
ونَحنُ اليومَ نَبْلَعُهُ لِيَبْلُغَنا،
كِلانا جُرْحُهُ مَلاَّحَةٌ لا يسْتَريحُ بِها الظَّمَأْ
ها نحنُ نُعْلِنُ لِلْمَلأْ
أَنَّ الترابَ يُعانِقُ المَوْتى
إِذا اقْتَرَفوا حَياةً لا تُطِلُّ على الحياةِ،
ولا يَطوفُ بِها الأَرَقْ
وإِذا أَناخُوا حُلْمَهُمْ خَلْفَ احْتِمالاتِ القَلَقْ
كانتْ بَيادِرُنا تَذوبُ مِنَ العِناقِ
إِذا أتى يَوْمُ الحصادِ،
وطالَ ظِلُّ القَمْحِ،
والْتَمَعَتْ عيونُ العاشِقينَ على حِكاياتِ السَّمَرْ
كانَ النَّدى يَغْفو على وَجْهِ الكُرومِ،
وفَوْقَ أَجْنِحَةِ الطُّيورِ الحالِماتِ بِمَوْسِمٍ أَحْلى
وَغُصْنِ باسِقٍ أَعْلى
يُغازِلُهُ القَمَرْ
كانَ النَّدى...
والأَرْضُ تَعْرِفُ أَنَّهُ دَمْعُ العيونِ الغَافِياتِ على " طناطيرِ " الشِّتاءِ،
يَمُرُّ في خَدِّ الشَّرَرْ

ما زالَ يَزْرعُ والمَنايا تحْصُدُ وَيَداهُ تبْدِعُ ما يُخَبِّئُهُ الـــــــغَدُ
حتى تَرَنَّحَ مِنْ صلابَتِهِ الرَّدى وسَرَتْ بِقبْضَتِهِ إلى وَطَن ٍ يَدُ

كانَ النَّدى...
ها نحنُ نُنْبِئُ بِالْمُخَبَّأِ في مَكاتيبِ المَطَرْ:
حَجَرٌ على حَجَرٍ..
وَيَرْتَدُّ الرَّصاصُ إلى صُدورِ المُطْلِقينَ بِلا عَدَدْ
عَلَمٌ على عَلَمٍ..
تُخَبِّئُهُ دِماءُ المُضْرِبينَ عَنِ السُّكوتِ،
وَتَنْتَهي مِنْ حُلْمِ رايَتِهِمْ
كَوابيسُ البَياضِ إلى الأَبَدْ
قَدَمٌ على قَدَمٍ..
وَتَحْتَرِقُ المَسافَةُ بينَ أَنيابِ المَنافي والوَطَنْ
وَنَشُقُّ عَنْ أَجْسادِنا جَسَدًا
لهُ طَعْمُ المَرافِئِ والمَخابِئِ والعَفَنْ
.. جَسَدًا كَفَنْ
ها نَحْنُ نُبْعَثُ مِنْ شَجَنْ
مِنْ رايَةٍ وَحِجارَةٍ .. وَقَصيدَةٍ مِنْ ذََوْبِ نُورْ
وَبِما نَشاءُ مِنُ الضَّحايا والقُبُورْ
مِنْ صَرْخَةٍ..
حَصَدَتْ هَشيمَ الصَّبْرِ، واحْتَرَقَتْ على آفاقِنا
اُغْنِيَّةً ضَحِكَتْ لها أَعْراقُنا
وضَفيرَةً دارَتْ على أَعْناقِنا
.. ما أَطْيَبَ الموْتَ المُذَيَّلَ بِالحَياةِ وبالنِّشيدْ!
ها نحنُ نُبْعَثُ مِنْ جَديدْ
ها نحنُ نَحْيا..
والنَّدى يَبْكيهِ دَمْعُ الواقِفينَ على مَحَطَّاتِ السَّراب،
يسائِلونَ القادِمينَ مِنَ الحدود:
مِنْ أَيْنَ جِئْتُمْ؟... لا جوابْ
صَدِئَ السُّؤالُ على الشِّفاهِ، وأَطْرَقَ المُتشائلون،
وهاجَرَ البَصَرُ المُؤَطَّرُ بالدُّموعِ إلى البعيدْ
وارْتَدَّ يَنْفُضُ عَن مَدامِعِهِ الخَرابْ
مِنْ أَينَ تَبْتَدِئُ الإِجابَةُ، والسُّؤالُ بِلا إطَارْ؟
آهٍ على هّمِّ الغريبِ؛ يموتُ مِنْ وَجْدٍ إِذا يحيا،
وَيحيا إِذْ يَموتُ على مُناجاةِ الدِّيارْ
يَرنو إلى أُفُقٍ تُرَقِّشُهُ النُّجومُ الباهِتاتُ،
وَيَنْثَني مِزَقًا تُجاذِبُهُ الفِرارْ
.. كانتْ لهُ " نَبَّاطَةٌ "
كم أَلْهَبَتْ ظَمَأَ العصافيرِ الطَّريدَةِ..
هل تُراهُ يَعودُ مُعْتَذِرًا يُكّفِّرُ عَنْ شَقاوَتِهِ،
فَيَملأُ كَفَّهُ دَمْعًا وَيَسْقيها؟
كانتْ لَهُ أَحْلامُهُ فيها
كانتْ لَهُ " نَبَّاطَةٌ " كَمْ أَمْعَنَتْ تِيها!
لو يُطْفِئُ المِصباحَ..
هلْ يَقْوى على النَّوْمِ المُميتِ.. على الضَّجَرْ،
والغُرْبَةُ السَّوداءُ تُقْرِئُهُ دَفاتِرَهُ المَليئَةَ بالزَنابِقِ والزَّهَرْ؟
كانَتْ تُبادِلُهُ السَّلامَ إِذا خَلا الدَّرْبُ المُزَنَّرُ بالْخَطَرْ
إلا إِذا امْتَدَّتْ إِلى صَدْرِ الظَّلامِ رِسالَةٌ،
مَرَّتْ على أَعْصابِها
فَتَمُدُّ في وَجَلٍ يَدًا هي وحدها أَدرى بِها
.. ماذا إِذا أَحَدٌ رَآها؟!
كمْ تَمَنَّتْ لو تُفيقُ كَأَنَّما حُلُمٌ يَطوفُ بِبابِها
وَتَهُمُّ أَنْ تَمضي.. ولكنْ،
تلكَ زادُ غَدٍ إِذا جَلَسَتْ إلى أَتْرابِها!!
لو يُطفئُ المِصباحَ..
هل يَقْوى، وفيهِ حُطامُ مِشْيَتِها إذا انْتَفَضَتْ،
كَأَنَّ الدَّرْبَ تَشْرَبُها وَتُخْفيها
وَيَتْبَعُها بِروحٍ كُلُّها فيها؟!
آهٍ على وَجَعِ الغريبِ إِذا تَمادَتْ فيهِ غُرْبَتُهُ،
وَغَصَّ بها، وَوَطَّنَها الفُؤادْ
سيظَلُّ يصْرَعُ دَمْعَهُ.. والدَّمْعُ يَصْرَعُهُ،
ويَصْطَنِعُ الرُّقادْ
هل يُطفئُ المصباحَ؟
... لن يقوى
ففي أحشائِهِ نارٌ تُضيءُ مَشارِفَ الماضي،
وَتَنْفُخُ في السُّهادْ
ما زالَ يحرصُ أنْ يُؤَجِّجَها، فَيُلْقِمَها الرَّمادْ
ما زالَ يُطعِمُها الكَفَنْ
عامانِ مَرَّا..
كمِ مِنَ الأعوامِ يَلْزَمُ كي نَمُرَّ مِنَ الزَّمَنْ؟
وَإِذا مَرَرْنا...
كم مِنَ الأَزْمانِ يَلْزَمُ كي نَمُرَّ إِلى وَطَنْ؟
وَإِذا مَرَرْنا...
كَمْ مِنَ الأَوْطانِ يَكفي.. كي يَرُدَّ لَنا الثَّمَنْ؟!
هيَ حِسْبَةٌ مَعْقولَةٌ..
لكنَّها الأَرْقامُ تَسْقُطُ
حينَ نسْقُطُ في الطَّريقِ إِلى فِلسطينَ الوَطَنْ!!

طارُوا على حَجَرٍ إلى الأقْمارِ وَتَفَجَّروا في الأفْق ِ كالإعصارِ
مُرْدٌ يُطاوِلُ بَعْضُهُمْ بَعضاً إذا وَفَدَتْ إليهمْ بِعثَةُ الأَ قــــــدارِ

عامانِ مَرَّا..
لا تَعُدَّ الماضِياتِ فَكُلُّها أَعوامُ جُوعْ
يا أَيُّها الوَطَنُ المُلَبَّدُ بالحِجارَةِ والمُسَيِّلِ للدُّموعْ
يا أَيُّها الجَسَدُ المُلَغَّمُ بالسَّواعِدِ والشُّموعْ
سَتَظَلُّ تَنْزِفُ كُلَّما انْهَمَرَتْ خُطاكَ على السُّفوحِ،
ولا سبيلَ إِلى الذُّرا
إلاَّ على جُثَثِ الدُّروعْ
مَنْ قالَ إِنَّ الموتَ في وَضَحِ النَّهارِ يُداهِمُ الموتى،
إِذا زَرَعوا الضِّياءَ على الثُّغورْ؟
سَتَظَلُّ تَنْزِفُ.. لا تَقِفْ
فالأَرضُ تَعْرِفُ زارِعيها إِنْ تَوَسَّدَتِ الوُجوهُ هَوى الثَّرى،
أَو مَرَّتِ الأَبْدانُ مِنْ موْتٍ إِلى مَوتٍ على حّدِّ الحديدِ
إِذا تَثاءَبَتِ القُبورْ

ما بالُ جَفنكَ جامداً لا يَغْمِضُ إنَّ الذي أدمى جُفونَكَ مُعرِضُ
جُثَثٌ يُدَثِّرُها القُنوطُ وإنَّـــــها لو فاجَأتها النارُ..ليستْ تَنْهَضُ

سَتَظَلُّ تَنْزِفُ.. لا تَقِفْ
لا تسْمَعِ الأَصواتَ إِنْ صَرَخَتْ بكَ الآلامُ،
لا تَحْفَلْ بِجُرْحِكَ إِنْ هَوى
جَرِّدْ جُروحَكَ كُلَّها،
وانْزعْ فَتيلَ مُكَبَّلٍ خلفَ الضُّلوعْ
أَسْرِجْ يديكَ.. ولا تَقِفْ
قد أَوشكَ الفَجْرُ المُحَنَّى بالدِّماءِ على الطُّلوعْ
طالَ انتِظارُكَ، واحتَرَقْتَ على خَراطيشِ الهُتافْ
عامانِ مَرَّا..
والضِّفافُ هيَ الضِّفافْ
والنَّازِحونَ النَّازِفونَ على الشَّواطِئِ لا تُبُلِّلُهُمْ مِياهُ البَحْرِ
لا يَنْفَضُّ عَنْ أَعناقِهِمْ حَدُّ الجَفافْ
يا أَيُّها المُتَساقِطونَ على السُّفوحِ رُوَيْدَكُمْ
سَتَمُرُّ أَعوامٌ عِجافْ
والبحرُ مَغلولُ اليدينِ،
وليسَ مِنْ زادٍ على كفِّ السَّحابِ سوى السَّرابْ
يا أيها المُتَساقِطونَ تَشَبَّثُوا
إِنَّ الحياةَ مِنَ التُّرابْ
لا تَدْفِنوا الشُّهَداءَ
– إن سقطوا –
فليسوا ميِّتينْ
لا تَدْفِنوهم.. إِنَّ في أَعراقِهِمْ أَحلامَ كُلِّ اللاجِئينْ
سَيُبَرْعِمونَ على المَعابِرِ والسُّهولِ، وفي الجِبالْ
خيلاً يُسابِقُها الصَّهيلُ إلى ثُغورِ البُرتُقالْ
وَحِجارَةً كالبَرْقِ تَخْطِفُ ما تَيَسَّرَ مِنْ ظِلالْ
لا تَسْأَلوا مِنْ أَيْنَ تَبْتَدِئُ الحكايَةُ والمَدى
هل يُسْأَلُ الزًَّمَنُ المُسافِرُ في المَدامِعِ عَنْ مَداهْ؟

ماذا نَرى؟! هل شابَتِ الألـــــــوانُ أمْ جَلَّلتْ قِمَمَ الذُّرى الأكْفـــــانُ
لا تَعْجَبوا.. هذا البياضُ على الذُّرا قِطَعُ الضُّحى يسعى بِها الفِتيانُ

عامانِ مَرَّا..
لا يَزالُ الليلُ يُجْهِضُ طَلْعةَ الفجْرِ المُرَصَّعِ بالأغاني والحياهْ
والحجَرُ المُزَنَّرُ بالجُنونِ يطارِدُ الليلَ الكسيحْ
والليلُ يَغْرَقُ في دُجاهْ
ماذا نَقولُ إِذا وَقَفْنا في رِحابِ الجُرحِ للفجْرِ الجَريحْ؟!
ماذا تَبَقَّى مِنْ مَحاجِرِنا لِنَدْفِنَ في زَواياها كَآبَتَنَا،
وَنُلْحِفَها الجُفونَ وَنَسْتَريحْ؟!
وَطَنٌ ذَبيحْ..
وَمَلامِحُ الشُّهَداءِ في وَجْهِ الرَّصاصِ،
تَكادُ مِنْ سَأَمٍ تَفِرُّ إِلى الدُّروبِ،
وَيُوشِكُ الدَّمُ أَنْ يصيح
بالخاطِرينَ عليهِ .. آهْ
آهٍ على وَطَنٍ تُفَجِّرُهُ الحَناجِرُ في الوُجُوهِ.. ولا تَراهْ
وَطَنٍ يَدورُ على المَوائِدِ والجَرائِدِ والشِّفاهْ
وَعلى الأَكُفِّ المُشْرَئِبَّةِ في الصَّلاهْ
وهلْ وَطَنٌ لِمَنْ هَجَروا السُّروجَ إِلى الضَّريحْ
كي يُطْعِموا دُودَ القُبورِ سُيوفَهمْ
وَسَنابِكَ الخيْلِ القتيلَةِ تَحْتَ أَلواحِ الصَّفيحْ؟!
وَهَلْ وَطَنٌ لِمَنْ لا يَجْرُؤونَ على تَهَجِّي حُلْمِهِمْ،
وعلى كِتابَتِهِ على الآفاقِ بالحَجََرِ الفَصيحْ؟!

ذَرُّوا عَلَيْنا مِنْ دَمٍ عَبِق ِ فَأَزَّيَّنَتْ إطلالََةُ الأفــــــق ِ
هذا الذي في أُفْقِنا دَمُهُمْ لَكنْ يُسَمّى حُمْرَةَ الشــَّفَق ِ

ما زالَتْ جُموعُ الخارِجينَ على الهُمومِ إِلى النُّجومِ،
تُلَمِّعُ الدَّرْبَ المُطِلَّ على غَدٍ مُتَمَرِّدٍ،
لِتَمُرَّ خُطْوَتُنا البَدينَهْ
خَرَجوا لنا.. خَرَجُوا علينا،
هَلْ سَنُبْطِلُ خَوْفَنا المَوقوتَ فينا؟
هل سَنَنْفُضُ عَنْ سَواقينا الغُبارَ المُسْتَميتَ على مَساقِطِها الحَزينَهْ
أَمْ سَوْفَ نَبْحَثُ في مَدائِنِنا الكَفِيفَةِ عنْ مَدينَهْ
لا تَلْعَقُ التَّاريخَ مِنْ يَبَسٍ،
ولا تَجْتَرُّ مِيتَتَهَا اللَّعينَهْ؟!
خَرَجُوا لَنا..
وَعَلى مُحَيَّاهُمْ مَواويلُ الجُروحِ المُبْحِراتِ إِلى مَوانِئِنا العَقيمَهْ
يَمْحُونَ عُتْمَتَنا،
وَيَجْتَزُّونَ مِنْ آفاقِنا أَعناقَ راياتِ الهَزيمَهْ
وَيُباغِتُونَ نُعاسَنا فينا،
وَيَنْتَشِلُونَنا مِنْ فائِضِ المَنْفى،
وَمِنْ فَحْوى جَنازَتِنا القَديمَهْ
خَرَجُوا عَلَينا عِندَ خَطِّ البَدْءِ،
واسْتَلُّوا حِجارَتَهُمْ، وَمَرُّوا فَوْقَ غَفْوَتِنَا
إِلى الحُلُمِ المُؤَجَّلِ في بَلاطِ القائِمينَ على جِراحاتِ الرَّبيعْ
مَرُّوا.. وكُنَّا مِنْ وَراءِ الرِّيحِ نَغْبِطُهُمْ،
نُحَدِّقُ في المَقاليعِ الأَخيرَةِ،
وهيَ تُمْطِرُ ما تَخَثَّرَ مِنْ أَمانينا على وَجْهِ الصَّقيعْ
خَرَجُوا علينا..
والحُواةُ القائِمينَ على مَهَبِّ الذِّكرياتِ تَكَدَّسُوا في ظِلِّنا
لا شَيْءَ يَمْحُوهُمْ إِذا ضاقَ الخَيالُ على الجَسَدْ
خَرَجَ الضُّحَى مِنْ قَبْوِنا المسْلوكِ في كَبِدِ الرَّحيلِ،
وما تَنَفَّسَ لَحْنُنا
لِيُبَدِّدَ الوَهْمَ المُمَدَّدَ في شِغافِ قُلُوبِنا
وَيُوَزِّعَ الأَنْهارَ فينا تَحْتَ رايَتِنا،
بِلا قَدَرٍ يُسَوِّغُهُ أَحَدْ
يَأْتي الصَّباحُ مُضَرَّجًا بِالفَجْرِ والضَّحِكاتِ والجُرْحِ العَميقْ
وَبِنَشْوَةِ الشُّعَراءِ إِذْ يَتَصَيَّدُونَ نَشيدَهُمْ،
وَقَصائِدَ الدَّم والحَريقْ
يأْتي الصَّباحُ..
وفي يَدَيْهِ مِنَ الطُّيُورِ بَقِيَّةٌ،
وَمِنَ الدُّخانِ بَقِيَّةٌ،
وَمِنَ الغُيومِ السَّائِماتِ على الدُّرُوبِ بَقِيَّةٌ
تَرْوي الحِكايَةَ لِلطَّريقِ عَلى الطَّريقْ
خَرَجُوا لَنا.. خَرَجُوا علينا
هلْ سَيَنْطَفِئُ الظَّلامُ المُسْتَبِدُّ على اشْتِعالاتِ الغَريقْ؟
هل يَنْتَهي الحُزْنُ المُسافِرُ طَيَّ غُرْبَتِنا التي كَبِرَتْ
على صَمْتِ المَلاجِئِ والمَوانِئِ والدِّماءْ؟
تَتَساقَطُ الأَشْلاءُ مِنْ وَلَهٍ على صَدْرِ الثَّرى المَعْجُونِ
بالدَّمِ والنُّبُوَّةِ والحَنينِ إِلى الضِّياءْ
وَتَعُودُ في ثَمَرِ الحقُولِ حِجارَةً
تَمْتَدُّ مائِدَةً أَمامَ زُنُودِنا،
لِنَمُدَّ أَيْدِيَنا، وَنَقْطِفَ ما نَشاءْ
يَاْتي الصَّباحُ..
فَيُضْرِبُ التُّجَّارُ عَنْ بَيْعِ السِّلاحِ،
فَنَكْتَفي بِعِظامِنا عنها،
وَنَحْصُدُ ما تَثاءَبَ في الحُقُولِ مِنَ السَّنابِلِ والإباءْ
عامانِ مَرَّا..
لا نَزالُ نُواصِلُ الحُلُمَ الجَميلَ على أنينِ النَّايِ والسَّفَرِ الطَّويلْ
ونَشُدُّ للتِّيهِِ المُخيفِ رِحالَنا،
وَنُذيبُ في هُوجِ الخُيولِ صَدى الرَّحيلْ
في كًلٍّ أُغْنِيَةٍ لَنا وَتَرٌ،
يُرَجِّعُ ما تَراجَعَ مِنْ نَشيدْ
وَبِكُلِّ قافِلَةٍ لَنا حادٍ،
يُلَوِّحُ للبعيدِ مِنَ البعيدْ
يَأْتي الصَّباحُ وليسَ فيهِ سِوى سَواعِدِنا
تَهُبُّ مَعَ الرِّياحِ المُبْحِراتِ إِلى الجُنونِ..
إِلى مُسَمَّانا الجَديدْ
هلْ يُطْفِئُ المِصباحَ؟
مَنْ يَسْتَوْقِدُ المَنْفى،
وَيَقْفِزُ في الظَّلامِ على أَهازيجِ الحِصارْ
وَيُعيدُ للقَمَرِ انْطِلاقَتَهُ على جَسَدِ البيادِرِ وانعِكاساتِ النُّضارْ؟!
مَنْ غَيْرُهُ يَسْتَوْقِفُ الشُّهَداءَ كي يروي لَهُمْ
قِصَصَ النَّزيفِ المُسْتَفَزِّ وَراءَهُمْ،
وَيُعيدُ فيهِمْ ما تَلاهُ اللاحِقُونَ،
وما اسْتَجَدَّ مِنَ التَّهَجِّي والعِثَار؟!
مَنْ غَيْرُهُ لمْ يُطْفِئِ المِصباحَ بَعْدُ، ولمْ يَضِعْ
ما بينَ أَوْهامِ اليمينِ ووهْمِ إِلْهامِ اليَسارْ؟
مَنْ غَيْرُنا حَمَلَ الجِراحً بِِِِِِِِِِِِِِِِلا ضُمُدْ؟
عامانِ مَرَّا..
هل نُصَدِّقُ أَنَّنا اجْتَزْنا الحَواشيَ والإطارَ بلا مَدَدْ؟
أمْ هل نُصَدِّقُ أَنَّنا عُدْنا على حَجَرٍ
مِنَ المَنْفى القَتيلِ.. إلى الخليلِ.. إلى صَفَدْ؟!
وَمِنَ احْتِراقاتِ الرَّحيلِ.. إِلى الصَّهيلِ..
مِنَ الخُواءِ إِلى الجَلَدْ؟
هذا حَقْلُنا مُتَسَرْبِلٌ بِسَنابِلِ الوَجَعِ الأَصيلِ،
وفي أَيادينا المَناجِلُ والمَعاوِلُ والحَرائِقُ والبَرَدْ
هذا حَقْلُنا مُتَبَرِّجٌ بِدَمِ النَّجيلِ،
وهذهِ أَعْراقُنا
تَلْهُو بِدَوْراتِ المقاصِلِ والقنابِلِ والزَّرَدْ
وعلى تَقاسيمِ النَّخيلِ،
وَفَوْقَ أَفْنانِ الكَمَدْ
أَلْقَتْ عَنادِلُنا تفاعيلَ الخليلِ
مِنَ الخَفيفِ إلى الثَّقيلِ.. إلى الطَّويلِ
على مَواقيتِ الأَبَدْ
هل رَجَعَ المسافرُ،
أم تَراجَعَ دربُهُ شيئًا فشيئًا للوراءْ؟
هل أًبحَرَتْ رِئَتاهُ،
أم أبقاهُما قيدَ الموانئِ
ما تَقاعَسَ مِن هَواءْ؟
عامانِ يَخْتَصِرانِ تاريخَ الخُواءْ
ما بينَ رائِحَةِ الرَّصاصِ ولونِ موْتٍ هارِبٍ مِنْ طَعْمِ غَدْ
أوْ طَعْمِ صَوتٍ خائِفٍ مِنْ لَونِ غَدْ
من هذا الذي الذي أَسْرى على خيلِ المَحاجِرِ،
كي يُقَنِّنَ ما نَراهُ مِنَ المَجازِرِ والبَدَدْ؟
في عَزْمِهِ شيءٌ مِنَ الفُصحى،
وبعضٌ مِنْ شهيقِ الشَّمسِ في وَجْهِ الزَّبَدْ
وعلى مُحَيَّاهُ انْهِماكٌ في التَّبَعْثُرِ،
واشتِهاءٌ للتَّبَلْوُرِ،
وامْتِلاءٌ بالتَّهَوُّرِ والجُنونْ
قُلْ: مَن تُراهُ يكونُ هذا الجامِحُ الصَّادي
إلى وَكْرِ المَنون؟
في كَفِّهِ حجرٌ،
وفي أَعراقِهِ حقلٌ مِنَ الأَلغامِ يَزْرَعُهُ العِدا والخائِنون
يا فارسَ العلياءِ:
هذا درْبُكَ المملوءُ بارودًا،
يُفَتِّشُ عَنْ خُطاكَ .. فهلَ تُحاذِرْ؟
يا حارسَ الصَّحراءِ:
كم ستموتُ، ثمَّ تعودُ،
كي تتلو على أسماعِنا قَلَقَ المقابِرْ؟
مَنْ أَفشاكَ في وَضَحِ النَّهارِ على المنابِرْ؟
يَسْتَعْجِلونَكَ كي تُوَزِّعَهُمْ على كفَّيْكَ ،
عُدَّ يَدَيْكَ ثانِيَةً..
إذا صافَحْتَ تُجَّارَ العَشائِرْ
لكَ اَنْ تَقولَ،
ولستَ مَعْنِيًّا بأنْ تُصغي لِفَلْسَفَةِ القبيلَهْ
كَفَّاكَ أَمْضى مِنْ لِسانٍ،
لا يُفَرِّقُ بينَ أَفواهٍ مُصَوَّبَةٍ،
وَأَفواهٍ قتيلَهْ
لكَ أنْ تَقولَ،
ولستَ مَعْنِيًّا بَأَصواتٍ
تُفَتِّشُ عنْ لُغاتٍ مُسْتَحيلَهْ
عامانِ مَرَّا..
مَنْ يُحاوِلُ أَنْ يَفُكَّ رُموزَ رايَتِنا المُدَمَّاةِ الجميلَهْ؟
أم مَنْ يُحاوِلُ أَنْ يَرانا مثلما نَبْدو،
إِذا عَصَفَتْ بِنا الكُرَبُ الجَليلَهْ؟
ها نحنُ نَقْطُرُ خَلْفَنا
جَبَلاً مِن َالأَحزانِ أَزْمانًا طَويلَهْ
وَنُميتُ فينا كُلَّ نَبْضٍ،
لا يُؤَجِّلُ مَوْتَنا..
حتَّى لِساعاتٍ قليلَهْ
ها نحنُ نُلْغي ظِلَّنا كي لا نُرَى،
وَنَفِرُّ مِنْ أَحلامِنا،
حتى إِذا اتَّسَعَتْ دَوائِرُها على خُطُواتِ قَتلانا الثَّقيلَهْ
سِرْنا إلى حُلُمٍ يُفَسِّرُ خَطْوَنا فينا،
وَيبحثُ عن دوائِرهِ البديلَهْ
ها نحنُ نخرُجُ مِنْ مَدافِنِنا إلى ساحاتِنا،
أَسَلاً مُثَقَّفَةً، وأَسيافًا صَقيلَهْ
ونسيرُ.. نبدأُ مِنْ حَقائِقِنا،
ونَشْطُبُ كلَّ شيءٍ عنْ "كُلَيْبٍ والجليلََهْ"
وَنَحُزُّ مِنَّا كُلَّ كَفٍّ،
لا تُحاوِلُ اَنْ تُجَرِّبَ حَدَّها بِيَدٍ عَميلَهْ!!

ما زِلْنا نُوَزِّعُ بيننا البَسَماتِ،
كي نَاْسو بِها الطَّعَناتِ،
ما زِلْنا نُحارِبُ بالهواءِ وبالحرائِقِ والحَجَرْ
والأَرضُ تُخْفينا إِذا انْفَضَحَتْ ملامِحُنا،
وَطَوَّقَنا الخَطَرْ
كانَ النَّدى..
والأَرْضُ تَحْفَظُ طَعْمَهُ عن ظهْرِ قلبٍ،
ليس تُخْطِئُهُ إِذا هَجَّتْ بشائِرُهُ،
وَأَوغَلَ في السَّفَرْ
كمْ يَعْشَقُ الرَّمْلُ المطرْ!!
كمْ يعشقُ الرملَ المطرْ!!
كيفَ نُصَنِّفُ الأَعوامَ إَِنْ ضاقتْ بها خاناتُنا،
وازْوَرَّ خِنْجَرُها منَ الطَّعَناتِ ،
كيفَ نَمرُّ في أَجسادِنا،
لنُخيطَ منها ما تثاءَبَ مِنْ جروحٍ واسْتَتَرْ؟
كيفَ السَّبيلُ إلى العِناقِ،
إلى نِهاياتِ الضَّجَرْ؟
.... وإِلى وَطنْ؟
يَتصاعَدُ الإيقاعُ مِنْ كَفٍّ إلى كفٍّ،
وَمِنْ صَفٍّ إلى أَلْفٍ،
وَمِنْ أَلَمٍ إلى حُلُمٍ،
يَشُقُّ على سِوانا أنْ يُوالِفَهُ،
إذا ما داهَمَتْ رُؤياهُ غَفْوَتَهُ،
لدى زَمَنٍ بِحَجْمِ رَصاصَةِ المطَّاطِ،
أو لَوْنِ الرَّصاصِ الحَيِّ،
وَهو يُوَزِّعُ الأَقدارَ في عَبَثٍ جُنونِيِّ الصفاتْ
يَتَصاعَدُ الإيقاعُ مِنْ صَوْتٍ إلى موتٍ إلى بَعْثٍ،
وتَختَلِطُ الأُمورُ على مواقيتِ المَواتْ
حُلُمٌ على كوفِيَّةٍ،
ويدٌ تُسّطِّرُهُ على صَدْرِ الهواءِ المُستحيلِ
وطنًا بِلَونِ الفجرِ، أَو سِحْرِ الأًصيلِ
وفي نَواياهُمْ مُداهَمَةُ الرِّياحِ على مَداخِلِ حُلْمِهِمْ
.. يَتدافعونَ إلى وَطَنْ

وَطَنٍ تَقَطَّرَ مِنْ سُكوتٍ مُستَقيلِ مُتَوَ ضِّىءٍ بِدَمٍ خُرافِيٍّ جَميــلِ
حتّى إذا مالَتْ بِهِمْ ريحُ النّوى قالوا لها: إنّا هُنا..يا ريحُ ميلي!!

يَتصاعَدُ الإيقاعُ مِنْ ضَجَرٍ إلى حَجَرٍ،
يُقَبِّلُ - إنْ هَوى – خَدَّ السَّبيلِ
وَلَهُ صَبابَتُهُ إِذا مَرَّتْ عليْهِ خُطى الصَّبايا
إِنْ صَبَوْنَ إِلى المَشاويرِ الطَّويلَةِ،
وافْتَرَضْنَ خُلُوَّهَا مِمَّنْ يُرِدْنَ،
وَطَوَّحَتْ أَيْدِ بِما سَتَرَ الشُّموسَ عَنِ الشُّروقِ،
وَرُحْنَ في نَشْرِ الهديلِ
يَتَصاعَدُ المِقلاعُ مِنْ نَفَقٍ إِلى أُفُقٍ،
لِيَرْصُفَ دربَنا للشمسِ،
كي نخطُو إلى غَدِنا،
على دَرْبِ الفِدى والعُنفُوانْ
حُلُمٌ على كُوفِيَّةٍ
وَيَدٌ تَذَرُّ على رَتابَتِنا انْفِجاراتِ الزَّمانْ
حُلُمٌ تَطيرُ بِهِ يَدانْ
يَسْتَحْضِرانِ الغيبَ مِنْ وَكَناتِهِ،
ويُلَمْلِمانِ الغيمَ في كَفَّيْهِما،
لِتَقرَّ عينُ الأُقْحُوانْ
كانَ النَّدى..
يا مُوغِلاً في النَّزْفِ قد ضاعَ الصَّدى

فاضَ الزَّمانُ وَهَزَّ أوصالَ الثَّرى فَنَمَتْ حِجارَتُهُ رَصاصاً أخْضَرا
وَتَخَطَّّفَتْهُ يَدٌ تَعالَتْ كَفُّهـــــــــــا سَلَكَتْهُ في دَمِها..فأدمى العَسْكَـرا

كانَ النَّدى..
لا تَلْتَفِتْ.. ماتَ الصَّدى
حُلُمٌ على عَلَمٍ تَنَشَّرَ واشْتَعَلْ
وعلى المداخِلِ والمخارِجِ مُعْتَقَلْ
يَتَدافَعُونَ إليكَ بالتَّصريحِ والتَّلْميحِ بالفَمِ والقُبَلْ
كانَ النَّدى..
يا فارِدًا كَفَّيْكَ في وَجْهِ المَدى
شيئانِ يَلْتَقِيانِ فيكَ إِذا سَرَجْتَ على المقاليعِ اليَدا
شيئانِ يلْتِقيانِ فيكَ إذا طَلَعْتَ على العِدا
شيئانِ يلتَقِيانِ فيكَ:
رَصاصَةٌ.. وخَصاصَةٌ
فَتَضوعُ حَولَكَ هالَةٌ مِنْ خالِصِ الدَّمِ والدُّخانْ
تَسْتَقْطِبُ الإِشفاقَ والإِغْراقَ،
والنَّعيَ المُلَفَّعَ بالأَسى والفَخْرِ:
( آلُ.. وكلُّ آلِ..وَشَعْبُنا.. ينعونَ بالحُزْنِ العميقِ شَهيدَنا..
بُشرى لأمَّتِنا.. نَزُفُّ لها الشَّهيدَ الأَلْفَ..
عَهْدًا أنْ نُواصِلَ دَرْبَنا.. دَرْبَ الشَّهادَةِ..
تُقْبَلُ الـْ.. نَسْتَقْبِلُ الـْـ..)
شيئانِ يلتقيانِ فيكَ مِنَ البِدايَةِ
كُلَّما غَضِبَتْ يَداكَ:
رَصاصُهُم.. وَعَزاؤُنا،
فَتَمُرُّ فيكَ قَصائِدُ الشُّعَراءِ،
تَسْتَجْدي مَزيدًا مِنْ صَلابَةِ ساعِدَيْكَ،
وَنُعْلِنُ الإضْرابَ والإِعرابَ والتَّأْريخَ،
هل يعني انتظارُكَ أَيَّ شيءٍ
غيرَ مَعنى الإنتظارْ؟
يا حامِلاً وِزْرَ الحقيقةِ في يَدٍ،
ودمَ الحَقائقِ في يَدٍ،
ودمي.. وأَوزارَ المَضارِبِ..
كم يَدًا ستَمُدُّ في صَحرائِنا،
لِتَمُدَّ روحَكَ فوقَها سُحُبًا ونارْ؟!
كم مرَّةً ستُضيءُ روحَكَ مِنْ لَظَى الظَّلْماءِ،
كي يسْتَأْنِسَ الغَدُ والنَّهارْ؟!
عامانِ مَرَّا لم تَنَمْ..
وعلى المَداخِلِ والمَخارِجِ لم يزلْ يَعلو الجِدارْ
يَتَدافَعونَ إِليكَ بالتَّنْظيرِ والتَّفْسيرِ والفُرَصِ الكبيرَةِ
هل تُصَدِّقُ ما يَدورُ على المَوائِدِ،
أمْ تُصَدِّقُ ما تَراهُ على الشَّواهِدِ،
هل ترى غيرَ الحِجارَةِ والرَّدى؟!
كانَ النَّدى..
عامانِ مَرَّا..
هل سَنََنْزِفُ للأبَدْ؟!
تتَدافَعونَ إلى الوراءِ، ووَحْدَنا
نبني سماءً للأَمامِ بِلا عَمَدْ
لكُمُ الفُحولَةُ والسُّيُولَةُ والهَوى
وَسَرائِرُ الليلِ المُعَطَّرِ بالهِباتِ..
ولا حَسَدْ
خَيْلٌ مُسَوَّمَةٌ.. وأسيافٌ مُدَلَّلَةٌ،
ونِفْطٌ ليسَ يُحْصى.. لا حَسَدْ
وَمُناوَراتٌ.. لا حَسَدْ
وَمُخابَراتٌ.. لا حَسَدْ
لكُمُ الحَياةُ.. ولا حَسَدْ
فَدَعُوا لَنا حُلُمًا تُطَرِّزُهُ لنا..
كَفَّا وَلَدْ
وَدَعُوا لَنا ما تَكْرَهُونَ،
فَنَحْنُ نَعْشَقُ ما يُوَرِّثُنا النَّكَدْ
باضَ الحَمامُ على الوَتَدْ
أَنتُمْ وما تَتَخَرَّصُونَ.. فَنَحْنُ أَصحابُ البَلَدْ
وَلَسَوْفَ نَدْخُلُهُ كما يَحْلو لنا،
مِنْ بعدِ ما لاكَتْ قَواطِعُنا المَسَدْ
وَتَخَلَّلَتْ أَقدامُنا وجْهَ السُّكوتِ المُسِتَحيلِ،
.. وما تَخَلَّلَنَا أَحَدْ !!


أَرَأَيْتَ ما جادَتْ بِهِ كَفُّ المِحَنْ؟ حَجَراً فَصيحاً لا يُغالِبُهُ الوَســـــــَــنْ
فاعْطِبْ يَدَيْكَ إذا تَوَسَّدَها الكَرى واحْطِبْ يَدَينِ مِنَ الصُّخورِ بلا وَهَنْ

عامانِ مَرَّا..
كم مِنَ الأَعوامِ يَلْزَمُ،
كي نَمُرَّ مِنَ الزَّمَنْ؟!
وَإِذا مَرَرْنا..
كم مِنَ الأَزمانِ يَلزَمُ،
كي نَمُرَّ إلى وَطَنْ؟!
وإذا مَرَرْنا..
كمْ مِنَ الأوطانِ يكفي،
كي يَرُدَّ لنا الثَّمَنْ؟!
هي حِسْبَةٌ مَعْقولَةٌ..
لكنَّها الأَرْقامُ تَسْقُطُ
حينَ نَسْقُطُ
في الطَّريقِ
... إلى فِلِسْطينَ الوَطَنْ!!!

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