 BY Duo Doloroso The tree of life my soul hath seen, Laden with fruit and olive green; The tree of life my soul hath seen, Its fruit my livelihood has been; But Israel, now it takes from me The Palestinian Olive Tree. This tree doth make my soul to thrive, I eat its fruit to stay alive; This tree doth make my soul to thrive, It keeps my dying self alive; But settlers steal the fruit from me, of the Palestinian Olive Tree. I'm weary of my fight for life, Here I will rest from daily strife; I'm weary with my endless toil, Here I will sit and rest awhile: Under the shadow I will be, of the Palestinian Olive Tree. This tree of life Uprooting, with its olives green; This tree of life Bulldozing with its vile machine; My heart doth break, no more to see The Palestinian Olive Tree. The tree's own oil has turned to tears, It's seen our suffering o'er the years; The tree's own oil has turned to tears, It's felt our suffering and our fears; Our freedom one day you will see, O Palestinian Olive Tree. |
Jan 6, 2010
The Palestinian Olive Tree
The Olive Tree
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 Tawfiq Zaiyyad Because I do not knit wool, Because I am always hunted And my house is always raided, Because I cannot own a piece of paper, I shall carve my memoirs On the home yard olive tree. 1 shall carve bitter reflections, Scenes of love and of yearning For my stolen orange grove And the lost tombs of my dead. I shall carve all my strivings For the sake of remembrance, For the time when I shall drown them In the avalanche of triumph. I shall carve the serial number Of every stolen piece of land, The spot of my village on the map And the houses And the trees And all the wild blooms That are blown up Or uprooted. I shall carve the names Of all connoisseurs in torture, The names of their prisons, The trade-marks of their chains, The archives of the jailors And the maledictions. I shall carve dedications, To memories threading to eternity, To the sanguine soil of Deir Yassin And Kafr Kassem, I shall carve on top of all The intense heights of the tragedy, The pounding and the bitter strife Which I bear Up the ladder of grief To the peak. I shall carve the sun' s reckonings And the moon's whisperings And what a skylark recalls At a love-deserted well. For the sake of remembrance, For the sake of all And every thing I shall continue to carve On the Horne yard olive tree. |
The Israeli Prisoner
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 Amany Hajyassin They surrounded your home with American tanks and helicopters With American guns held in blood stained hands What was accomplished by these young Israelis? They terrorized your mother They held your father back, and was forced to watch While the Israelis pulled your arms back and tied your hands with cheap wire You were taken out of your home with your eyes covered and thrown into a hummer Most likely filled with other young brave shabab You've been taken away your destination is unknown and all I think about is the condition you are in Your eyes are covered and your hands are tied all you wonder is if you're going to live to see tomorrow Your heart begins to melt as you begin to think of the pain and sadness that your mother has witnessed A tear forced its way down your cheek as you wish it was the good-bye kiss and said the words I love you to your grieving mother The hummer comes to a stop and you're beaten as you are being yelled at viciously to get off Your eyes are covered and all you can think about is what is going to happen next You are now sitting confused and scared Your interrogation has begun and you are harassed with questions "Have you participated in any protests?" "Have you any link to Hamas?" They continue to throw more and more questions at you What you did on a certain day and who were you with and why were you there You are beaten as you give the answer but it's the answer they don't want to hear A "Yes" is a beating A "No" is a beating A beating happens whenever they feel like it Your beating becomes their amusement Their amusement becomes your humiliation As each beating gets painful you build more pride in being a Palestinian My head begins to hurt more as I try to think about why they took you Then I laugh at myself because the answer is very simple: You're a young Palestinian, a shab You are exactly what the Israelis are looking for A shab is usually seen as "a member of Hamas" and someone who participates in rock throwing and protests My heart aches as I feel the breaking heart of your mothers My eyes are red and swollen as I watched the eyes of your mother Her tears have started as clear water and ended as aching blood Your young brothers have become horrified by what they've witnessed If they participate in the stone throwing clashes or get into heated arguments with Israeli soldiers Nobody could dare to blame them! Why!? You must ask Because the Israelis have kidnapped their older brother, their role model The Israelis have left them with no other choice The rays of the sun have turned into thunder and lightening As the thunder and lightening symbolize a new death of a courageous and brave Palestinian soldier And as the shining bright rays of the sun symbolize the martyrdom and freedom of a Palestinian hero You're my hero my soldier You're a born soldier and a symbol of the Intifada You are what people call brave and courageous You shall soon be free and Palestine will once again be liberated Freedom, Peace and Justice in Palestine... * Dedicated to my cousin Tariq, who was detained by Israelis October 3, 2003 and released on November 12, 2003. God Bless those still in Israeli prisons. May they soon be free. - Submitted - |
The First Date
 Mahmoud Darwish Translated by: Denys Johnson-Davies/The Music of Human Flesh. Squeezing my hand, She whispered three words to me: The most precious thing I had all day: ‘Tomorrow we’ll meet.’ And the road enveloped her. Twice I shaved, Twice shone my shoes, And took my friend’s suit-and two liras With which to buy her sweets and white coffee. I sit alone While lovers smile And something tells me: We too shall smile. Perhaps she’s on her way, Perhaps it slipped her mind. Perhaps … perhaps… Tow minutes more to go. Half-past four. Half an hour has passed, An hour, two hours. The shadows stretch themselves And she who promised did not come at half-past four. |
The Fire of the Magi
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 Tawfiq Zaiyyad In the darkling dust I hold the beams, And quietly cherish my blooming dreams, Dispelling the sadness, wiping the tears Of my loved ones, allaying their fears; And, like a wizard with a magic wand, I plant fruitful trees in parched sand. With dogged perseverance I lead the way: Nothing will ever make me go astray! Though displaced, wherever I go, Like the fire of the Magi, I ever glow; Nothing can stop my perpetual continuity Which I shall bequeath to posterity: In my land, I am a deep - rooted plant. With the resourcefulness of a diligent ant! |
The Cry of the Victim
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 Tawfiq Zaiyyad I was set upon by foreign thieves Who stole my trees, fruits and leaves, Who robbed me of my fertile soil, Of my bread, water, and oil; And with one wild, sweeping swing, They deprived my people of everything; But they could not take away my pride, Nor the solidity of my firm stride: I stand tall, defying their injustice Despite the torture they daily practice. They planted a tragedy in every home And buried our sun in darkling gleam. My voice continues to cry in the distance Till it awakens the world's conscience. |
The Coming Tornado
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 Samih Al- Qassem I stretch across all corners of creation, But the world ignores my lamentation; I call on the tops of every mountain, And in the shadows of every fountain, Where I have been banished, long ago: But in vain, my voice is a lost echo! I am forgotten, hungry, oppressed and bereaved. I sought justice, but all I received Was more blows that made me bleed; Yet, I remain steadfast, like a seed Buried deep in the womb of the soil, Where my feelings simmer and boil: In time I shall explode like a volcano, And storm oppressors, like a tornado! |
Stranger in a Distant City
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 Mahmoud Darwish Translated by: Denys Johnson-Davies/The Music of Human Flesh. When I was young And handsome, The rose was my home, Springs my seas. The rose became a wound, The springs a thirst. ‘Have you changed much?’ ‘Not much.’ When we return like the wind To our house, Look hard at my forehead And you will find the rose a date palm, The springs sweat. You will find me as I was- Young And handsome. |
Stolen Innocence
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 Nahel A. Rimawi The blood and tears of the young soak this war weary land, Childhoods stolen by a Zionist hand. Brother against brother is their plan but what they do not know is that the have created a nation of strong men. Like a roaring thunder comes out their screams, how can we watch them as they suffer and grieve? Their cries are still heard in the calm of the dead sea, their souls still roam these holy streets. The rumble from their stomachs shakes the ground from starvation, their only food is oppression and occupation. Their homes are destroyed while asleep in their beds, living they can no longer bare, their hearts fill with utter-despair. For over fifty years they have suffered as infants to men, only the belief in Allah will keep them from giving in. The children of and the world still ignores the stolen innocence that fills the cemeteries. by Nahel A. Rimawi ( RAMEE74@aol.com ) |
Steps in the night
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 Mahmoud Darwish Translated by: Denys Johnson-Davies/The Music of Human Flesh. Always, We hear at night approaching steps And the door feels from our room, Always, Like departing clouds. Your blue shadow, who draws it away Each night from my bed? The steps come on, and your eyes are countries, Your arms a blockade around my body. And the steps come on, Why does the shadow that depicts me flee, O Shahrzad? And the steps come on and do not enter. Be a tree, That I may see your shade. Be a moon, That I may see your shade. Be a dagger, That I may see in your shade in mine, A rose in ashes. Always, I hear at night approaching steps, And you become my places of exile, You become my prisons. Try to kill me Once and for all. Do not kill me With approaching steps. |
Run Run My Pony
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 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.) |
Returning to Jaffa
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 Mahmoud Darwish Translated by: Denys Johnson-Davies/The Music of Human Flesh. (To the Palestinian martyr Abu 'Ali Ayyad* - on no particular occasion) Now he departs from us And settles in And he knows it stone by stone. Nothing resembles him And songs Imitate his green rendezvous. Now he announces his form – And the pines grow on a gallows. Now he announces his story – And fires grow on a lily. Now he departs from us To settle in And we are far away from him, And And we are far away from him. We have our pictures in women's pockets, And in the pages of newspapers. We announce our story everyday To win a lock of wind, a kiss of fire. And we are far away from him, Asking him to go to his death. We write an eloquent communiqué about him, Some modern poetry, And go our way to throw off our sorrows at pavement cafés And we protest: We have no home in the city. And we are far away from him, We embrace his murderer at the funeral, We steal from his wound the cotton-wool to shine The medals of patience and of waiting. Now he emerges from us As the earth emerges from a rainy night And the blood pours out of him And the ink pours out of us. And what shall we say to him? Does the memory fall On a dagger When evening is far from Now he is going to it As bombs or an orange, And he does not know the boundary between crimes When they become rights And between justice, And he affirms nothing And he refutes nothing. Now he goes on and leaves us So that we may sometimes object, Sometimes accept. Now he passes on as a martyr And leaves us as a refugees. And he slept And had not taken refuge in tents, Had not taken refuge in harbours, Hadn’t talked, Hadn’t learnt, Hadn’t be a refugee. It is the earth that is a refugee in his wounds And he has brought it back. Do not say: Our father which art in Heaven. Say: Our brother who has taken the earth from us And he returned . . . He is now being put to death And now settles in And he knows it stone by stone. Nothing resembles him And songs imitate him, Imitate his green rendezvous So that now the arms of refugees may be raised As winds, as winds. So that now their bodies may explode As morning, as morning. So that the earth may discover the earth within us. * Abu 'Ali Ayyad, a leader of Fateh, was killed in 1971 in Jerash in the fighting between the Palestinians and the Jordanian army. |
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