Run Run My Pony

Run Run My Pony

Jabra Ibrahim Jabra Run run my pony, Wherever the front is the back And night is proclaimed by the hour. Forwards, backwards, run What matters if the arrow points Here, there, Arrows are deception one and all In the circle of the horizon. Run run my pony, Like a train whose driver has gone mad And whistles in the dark of night Out of joy, for nothing, Out of joy in the labyrinth, my pony, Neigh and exult Not for love, not for anything Running to the death exult, To birth exult. The hyena howls lustfully The buxom maiden cries sleeplessly Over the pages of a story That you trod on with your hoofs, And a poem on which you emptied Your generous bladder. Night then, and exult And run. Among spears run Among killers’ teeth, my pony, Over the faces of the killed run Although the killed are our fathers, the road companions are the killersÜAnd the killers Run run  From hunger to hunger, And from hunger to greed Whinny and resist, Spread seduction from the hips Spread emptiness and spread boredom Run run Among walls that do not end. A pit at the end Is the same as one at beginning, And to delude those walking in the dark there are So do not be deluded:ÜPits on the road The path will not be straight In the morning nor will The mountain ways reach lush places As good as spring in Time. If you should stop with me, my pony, Then stop at the ruins Where castles stand A lover of ruins am IÜFor my enjoyment The dancers’ eyes in them Flutter from the cracks of marble, The victors’ heads look from Balconies masked With the faces of fifty thousand dead Or seventy thousand, or one thousand thousand (who knows how to count in the labyrinth my pony?) there where abondoned lips and breasts which have the fire of twenty, the smell of pine-trees at the first winter showers. Didn’t we plant kisses on stones And pour lust at night On the ruins, while death Shouted at us from every side Like the songs of Sirens? If you should stop, then stop A little where the lips Are more obstinate than the day And more lasting than the heads of generals And the muzzles of guns, Then run, To the plains, to the mountain paths, to return To the dumb streets Where the radio barks The funeral of the living to the living. (Al-Madar al-Mughlaq, Beirut 1964.)