How will I drag my feet to her now?
In which land will I see her,
And on which street of what city
Should I ask about her?
And if I find her house,
Let’s say I do,
Will I ring the bell?
How would I answer?
How should I answer,
And how will I stare at her face
As I touch the light wine
Seeping between her fingers.
How should I say hello …
And how will I take the pain
Of all these years?
Twenty years ago,
On an air-conditioned train,
I kissed her all through the night.

Saadi Youssef (b1934)

You want, like all women,
Solomon’s treasure.
You want pools of pleasure,
Combs of Ivory.
You want a horde of slaves.
Sharazad, like all women want.
You want me to give you
The stars, the heavens.
You want me to give you
The stars in the heavens.

Nizar Qabbani (1923-1998)

Imagine where this dove will go;
Imagine when her wings turn grey,
When her call grows old.
Will she turn to the mirrors of young sparrows
Who slide into delusion?
Or will a deaf sparrow offer her
A perch to sing?
How will she apologize to a traveller
Wanting to stroke her feathers
When the flock scatters?
How will she strut through the courtyard
Or impress the grass?
Will she look for a kind boy to grind her
A grain of wheat,
Or an old flame to relight ageing passions?
Perhaps she will divide her sadness
Between a window and a metal cage.
Perhaps she’ll become a professional mourner
At the funerals of birds.
Imagine where this dove will go
When the trees donate their lowest branch.
Imagine when neighbours
Are indifferent to her past, fading.

Worod Musawi (b1981)
after Abboud Al Jabiri (b1963)

Imagine where this dove will go;
Imagine when her wings turn grey,
When her call grows old.
Will she turn to the mirrors of young sparrows
Who slide into delusion?
Or will a deaf sparrow offer her
A perch to sing?
How will she apologize to a traveller
Wanting to stroke her feathers
When the flock scatters?
How will she strut through the courtyard
Or impress the grass?
Will she look for a kind boy to grind her
A grain of wheat,
Or an old flame to relight ageing passions?
Perhaps she will divide her sadness
Between a window and a metal cage.
Perhaps she’ll become a professional mourner
At the funerals of birds.
Imagine where this dove will go
When the trees donate their lowest branch.
Imagine when neighbours
Are indifferent to her past, fading.

Worod Musawi (b1981)
after Abboud Al Jabiri (b1963)

An ancient woman, who has lived all seasons,
Wanders the earth gathering camomile.
Each flower in her apron is a star;
Her apron is the sky.
When she reaches the house,
She strews them to dry
Like shells on a beach—
To bring good luck,
To whisper the future.
In the sun her tattoo glistens,
A star glints in her golden earring,
The camomile dries.
Her hand, hennaed with God’s names,
Spun the wool of the flock,
Embroidered the wedding clothes,
Gathered the dried flowers.
But next season, when the future arrived,
It silenced the whispers.
She was buried with her ancestors.
And yet as if by chance,
As if by magic,
As if by a miracle
The camomile grows each season.
Many seeds have flown.
These seeds remain.

Sara Vaghefian (b?)
after Khaled Abdallah (b1970)

An ancient woman, who has lived all seasons,
Wanders the earth gathering camomile.
Each flower in her apron is a star;
Her apron is the sky.
When she reaches the house,
She strews them to dry
Like shells on a beach—
To bring good luck,
To whisper the future.
In the sun her tattoo glistens,
A star glints in her golden earring,
The camomile dries.
Her hand, hennaed with God’s names,
Spun the wool of the flock,
Embroidered the wedding clothes,
Gathered the dried flowers.
But next season, when the future arrived,
It silenced the whispers.
She was buried with her ancestors.
And yet as if by chance,
As if by magic,
As if by a miracle
The camomile grows each season.
Many seeds have flown.
These seeds remain.

Sara Vaghefian (b?)
after Khaled Abdallah (b1970)