Five Letters To My Mother Nizar Qabbani Poem

good morning sweetheart good morning my saint of sweetheart it has been two years since the boy has sailed on his mythical journey since he hid within his luggage the green morning of his homeland and her stars and her streams and all of her red poppy since he hid in his cloth sponges of mint and thyme and Damascene lilac am alone the smoke of my cigarette is bored and even my seed of Mia's borne my sorrows are like flocking Birds looking for grain field in season became acquainted with the women of Europe became acquainted with their tired civilization toured India and toured China toured the entire oriental world and nowhere found lady to comb my golden hair lady that hides for me in her purse sugar candy lady that dresses me when am naked and lifts me up when fall mother am that boy who sailed and still lunges to the sugar candy so how come or how can mother become father and never grow up good morning from Madrid how is the fuller beg you to take care of her that baby of baby she was the dearest love to father he spoiled her like his daughter he used to invite her to his morning coffee he used to feed her and water her and cover her with his mercy and when he died she always dreamt about his return she looked for him in the corners of his room she asked about his robe and asked about his newspaper and asked when the summer came about the blue color of his eyes so that she can throw within his bombs her golden coins send my best regards to house that taught us love and mercy to your white flowers the best in the neighborhood to my bed to my books to all of the kids in the alley to all of these walls we covered with noise from our writings to the lazy cat sleeping on the balcony to the lilac climbing bush the neighbor's window it has been two long years mother with the face of Damascus being like bird digging within my conscience biting at my curtains and picking with gentle beak at my fingers it has been two years mother since the nights of Damascus the odors of Damascus the houses of Damascus have been inhabiting our imagination the pillar lights of her mosques have been guiding our sails as if the pillars of the MOA have been planted in our hearts as if the orchards are still perfuming our conscience as if the lights and the rocks have all traveled with us this is September mother and here is sorrow bringing me his wrapped gifts leaving at my window his tears and his concerns this is September whereas Damascus where his father in his eyes where is the silk of his glances and where is the aroma of his coffee may God bless his grave and where is the fastness of our large house and where is its comfort and where is the stairwell laughing at the tick holes of blooms and where is my childhood draggling the tale of the cat and eating from the grapevine and snipping from the lilac Damascus Damascus when poem we wrote within our eyes what pretty child that we crucified we kneeled at her feet and we melted in her passion until we killed her with love