A Traveler
Mahmoud Darwish
(March 13, 1941- August 9, 2008)
This road takes me; a horse guiding a horsemanA traveler like me cannot look backI have walked far enough to knowWhere autumn beginsThere, behind the river,the last pomegranates ripenin an additional summerand a beauty mark growsin the seed of the appleThe road and I will sleep like partnersBehind the river, beneath our shadows
And tied his hands to the rock of the dead.
They said: You're a murderer.
They took his food, his clothes and his banners,
And threw him into the well of the dead.
They said: You're a thief.
They threw him out of every port,
And took away his young beloved.
And then they said: You're a refugee.
I steal from no one.
However
If I am hungry
I will eat the flesh of my usurper.
Beware beware of my hunger
And of my anger.
As we walk among the bombs.
Are you used to death?
I'm used to life and to endless desire.
Do you know the dead?
I know the ones in love.
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