Muhammad al-Fayturi : To Two Unknown Eyes

To Two Unknown Eyes

Here is one of favorite Arabic poem by. It is titled ” To Two Unknown Eyes”

Mistress…

Should these enamored words chance to meet your eyes

Or pass between your lips

Then forgive me; it was your eyes

In whose shade one evening I leaned resting

And snatched brief slumber

In their repose I caressed the stars and moon

I wove a boat of fancy out of petals

And laid down my tired soul

Gave to drink my thirsty lip

Quenched my eye’s desire.

***

Mistress…

When we met by chance as strangers meet

My sorrow too was walking on the road

Bare, unveiled

With heavy tread

You were my sorrow.

Sadness and loss

Silence and regret

Were embracing a poet consumed by struggle.

For poetry, mistress, is a stranger in my land

Killed by emptiness and void

My spirit trembled saw you

I felt suddenly as if a dagger delved into my blood

Cleanse my heart, my mouth

Prostrated me with soiled brow and supplicating hands

In the shade of your sweet eyes.

***

Mistress…

If suddenly we meet

If my eyes see those your eyes

High-set, green, drowned in mist and rain

If on the road by another chance we meet

And what is chance but fate?

Then would I kiss the road, kiss it twice

تنويه : الترجمة أعلاه من النت ، ولا أعلم إسم المترجم ...

وهنا النص الأصلي للقصيدة ..

Quote: إلى عينين غريبتين سيّدتي .. لو لامست عينيك هذي الكلمات العاشقات صدفة .. لو عبرت خلال الشفتين فاعتذري عنّي لعينيك لأنّني اتّكأت في ظلّهما ذات مساء سرقت غفوه .. داعبت في سكونها النجوم و القمر نسجت زورقاً خرافياً ، من ورق الزهر وسّدت روحاً متعباً سقيت شفة لاهثه أطفأت شوق عين . سيّدتي .. حين التقينا صدفة لقاء الغرباء كانت كآبتي مثلي ، تمشي في الطريق عارية بلا قناع مشقوقة القدم .. كانت كآبتي أنتِ و كان الحزن ، و الضياع كان الصمت ، و الندم يعانقان شاعراً أنهكه الصراع و الشعر يا سيّدتي في وطني غريب يقتله الفراغ ، و العدم و انتفضت روحي حين أبصرتك يا سيّدتي شعرت فجأة ، كأنّ خنجراً يغوص في دمي يغسل قلبي ، و فمي يطرحني مخضّب الجبين ، ضارع اليدين تحت ظلال مقلتيك الحلوتين سيّدتي لو التقينا فجأة .. لو أبصرت عيناي تلكم العينين الأفقين الأخضرين الغارقين في الضباب و المطر لو جمعتنا فرصة أخرى على الطريق و كلّ صدفة قدر فسوف ألثم الطرق مرّتين .

Sorrows of the Black City
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by Muhammad al-Fayturi
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When night casts its net of shadows over the streets of the city
shrouding it in grief,
you can still see them —
slumped in silence, staring at the cracks.
And you think they are calm,
but you're wrong — they're on fire!
When darkness raises its statues of marble
on the streets of the city
then smashes them in fury
then the city will lead all the people
down the spiral staircase of the night
into the deep distant past.
The past with its ambergris shores
is dreaming of memories
too deeply to be roused.
And inside everyone something begins to stir —
a fresh wall made of clay,
stuck with diamonds and desires.
When night sleeps and day wakes
raising its candles in the dark
peace ebbs back to its home in the grave.
At that, the heart of the city
turns futile and wretched —
it is an oven at noon, a lamp for the blind.
Like ancient Africa, the city is truly
an old woman veiled in frankincense,
a great pit of fire, the horn of a ram,
an amulet of old prayers, a night full of mirrors,
the dance of black women, naked,
shouting their black joy.
This coma of sins was kept alive by the master,
ships filled with slave girls,
with musk, ivory and saffron —
gifts, all without joy, despatched by the winds of all ages
to the white man of our time
to the master of all time.
A plantation stretches out in imagination
to clothe the naked, to loosen their clothes,
flowing like its ancestors through the veins of life,
dyeing the water, and dyeing God's face,
its sorrows on every mouth
breeding tyrants and iron and slaves,
breeding chains, every day breeding some new horror….
And yet, on the streets of the city,
when night constructs
its barriers of black stone — they stretch out their hands,
in silence, to the balconies of the future.
They are locked-up cries
in a locked-up land.
Their memories are stab-wounds.
Their faces are sad, like the faces of the blind.
Look, there they are,
######### slumped in silence. And you think they are calm.
But you're wrong. Truth is, they're on fire….
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The literal translation of this poem was made by Anna Murison
The final translated version of the poem is by The Poetry Translation Workshop

الأخ ibrahim fadlalla
سلامات
ليتها كانت my lady بدلا عن mistress ... فهي أحلى وألطف وقعا ... شكرا على القصائد..