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Najwan Darwish
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Though I’m right beside it,
I can’t call out to the sea:
neighbor, come join me for coffee.
Instead, my other neighbor Carmel
visits me through the window
without my permission
and never even once
tries to enter through the door
(anyway, it owns the place).
Sometimes church bells reach me
from the depths of Wadi Nisnas,
other times the morning call to prayer
comes quietly from the Istiqlal Mosque
(that the old breeze carries from Wadi Salib),
the Baha’is keep donating,
and filling the city with Persian gardens
that escaped from Shiraz,
and in Kababir,
the followers of Mirza Ghulam Ahmad
maintain their naps of devotion
and hunt the truth in tales,
as for the holy men among the Druze,
their poems reach me from their temple
at the foot of Mount Hermon
like the white headscarves of their women—
the ones that hide a thousand years of darkness.
And I, aimless,
between the mountain and the sea,
I, who follow no one but myself,
what should I do among all these devotees,
here,
where time has found its end?
Najwan Darwish
Translated from Arabic by Kareem James Abu-Zeid & Nathalie Handal
An Saol Thart ar Shliabh Chairmeil
Cé go bhfuilimse díreach in aice léi,
ní thig liom glaoch ar an muir:
a chomharsa liom, ól braon caife im’ theannta.
Ina áit sin, tugann comharsa eile liom, Cairmeil,
cuairt orm tríd an bhfuinneog
gan chead gan iarraidh
agus ní thagann riamh
thar tairseach chugam isteach
(ar aon nós, is leis siúd an áit).
Uaireanta, as duibheagán Wadi Nisnas
sroicheann cloig na heaglaise mé,
uaireanta eile tagann glaoch maidine chun urnaí
go ciúin ó Mhosc an Neamhspleáchais
(a iompraíonn an tseanleoithne ón Wadi Salib),
leanann na Bahá’ígh leo lena gcuid síntiús,
an chathair á líonadh acu le gairdíní Peirseacha
a d’éalaigh ó Shiraz,
agus in Kababir,
bíonn a ndreas codlata deabhóideach
ag lucht leanúna Mirza Ghulam Ahmad i gcónaí
an fhírinne á seilg acu sa scéalaíocht,
maidir leis na fir chráifeacha i measc na nDrúsach,
sroicheann a gcuid dánta mé óna dteampall
ag bun Shliabh Hearmón
mar chaifiríní bána na mban–
na caifiríní a chlúdaíonn míle bliain de dhorchadas.
Is mise, gan treoir,
idir an sliabh agus an mhuir,
mise nach leanann éinne ach mé féin amháin,
cad ab áil liomsa a bheith i measc na móidíní seo go léir,
anseo,
agus ceann scríbe bainte amach ag an am?
Gabriel Rosenstock
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