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Next to
our
nation's bedroom
Next to
the
nursery school
Next to
the
5.a.m. orchestra, when
upright and in a hurry
the
farm-worker goes out
and
the 5 p.m. flute, when
bent and numb
he
comes back
Next to
the
room of hope and despair,
the
family prayers,
the
silence of nurses
and
the dry branch
motionless on clean sheets
Next to
the
poet's room
where words are dogs
or
birds:
with his stick
he
drives the assaulting dogs away,
his
hand opens
to
throw barley to the birds
and
he waits
Next to
the
interrogation room
packed with the stupidity of screams
and
the cunning
of
the iron chains
Next to
the
grandmother
squatting near the clay oven
watching the interaction between
a
loaf of bread
and
the flames
Next to
the
maternity ward
He
sits
with strong muscles
and
tools and weapons
ready to help
he
thinks of us a lot
he
looks after us
like an indispensable
head of the family
Next to
the
great room we call our country
Death
stays up, active
for
our sake.
(Translated by Radwa Ashour)
From People in their Night, (1999)
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