Translated by: Riyadh Abdulwahid
Επιμέλεια: Εύα Πετροπούλου Λιανού
I fold my time, ritually cleansed,
into waiting for you.
October crowds itself
into the dusk of two miraculous eyes,
like the fine residues of an ancient love.
I pass through myself—
eras long trained in withering,
a solitude circling slowly
at the edge of combustion.
You are a cold typographic letter,
one that sold its soul to neutrality.
Morning peels back
to reveal your name.
The sun carefully severs its umbilical cord,
and your shadow sets sail
from the shores of my blood.
Yet no sail rises for you,
and my silence hauls nothing
but a song barren of heirs.
The wind, theatrical in tone,
stages the most ruinous scattering of intent.
All my senses fell still—
stabbed at their very origin.
Here lie countless stones of time,
and memories stripped of appetite,
reading manhood in reverse.
I remember… you told me,
“I am a history
searching your cells for its blood.”
So I tuned my throat
to the trees
and tiled roofs of your cities.
I pawned my bracelets,
carried vessels of silver
to wash Shahryar’s fingers,
but dawn remained suspended
in the middle of the tale.
Do not be afraid…
Yesterday is a blind sparrow.
The anxiety of boats
no longer pierces longing,
nor does the night of extended chants
archive your eyes
in the city’s sigh.
Since you shook my hand
in white gloves that evening,
the moment was profaned,
and the chastity belt
you cinched at the waist fell away.
Your autumn writhed in hunger.
As for me…
The rain will escort me to my wedding.
Reema Hamza Syria.
Poems on One Leg
If only I were a child,
but age arrives from the last line.
If only I were a moon,
but the nights fall asleep early.
If only I were footsteps,
but the roads have abandoned their journeys.
If only I were a river,
but the directions are thirsty from one side.
If only I were a dawn,
but the night has not surrendered its keys.
If only I were a secret,
but the eyes sold me in the market of reproach.
If only I were a rose,
but your breaths withered before the approach.
If only I were a tent,
but the earth does not fix a stake in oblivion.
If only I were a tent once more,
but the wind changes my homeland every evening.
If only I were a cloud,
but the rain plays in another sky.
If only I were a wall,
but longing leapt over me.
If only I were a wave,
but the sea has dried up in the index.
If only I were a map,
but the colors are questions.
If only I were a seagull,
but the storm steals me from the memory of the sea.
If only I were a metaphor,
but mouths are cages.
If only I were a final line,
but the reader tore the page before arriving.
If only I were a paradox,
but the shores are alike.
If only I were a painting,
but the children mistook the war for swings.
If only I were your woman,
but your heart is the People’s Republic of China.
If only I were a seed,
but the soil is filled with the bones of history.
Reema Hamza Syria
