No Star for the Absent, A Poem by Muwaffaq Muhammad, Translation: Hussain Alwan Hussain

(From: To be in Dust is Better than among the Savage)
This is the night of the festivals;
And I am now in your room:
God s Book is still open there,
And your gold index lisps,
I spell Yusuf s Sura,
And see your face in the mirror;
Fresh, just as it used to be.
I can see your face in the light of the lantern:
The lantern that your mother refills
Everyday from her blood;
She kindles it at the evening that grinds the heart;
And adds another blanket to your bed
Whenever the weather becomes a little colder.
She is used to weeping
At a narrow basement stair.
Then steps down like a thread to your tomb,
Feeding it with her breast,
And whispers:
"Here is your milk, O son,
So fill yourself to your heart s content with it."
I wish she had not given birth to you,
For what is there in the graves?
I contemplate your unfinished sketch:
The bit of your bread has essayed a dove.
Your soul was in peace at the village,
Then who has kindled the fire?
Who has made a hole in the ship s heart?
I gaze at your last photo:
We were in the garden at home,
And that was the Last Supper.
You were so young,
Sprinkling with your white shirt.
Who can pass that shirt upon my Heart,
So that He can regain His eyesight?
I shut off my eyes,
Hoping to see you in a dream;
So when will you knock at the door?
You would say "Peace be upon you."
And I would reply; "peace be upon you",
And melt myself in the fragrance of almond,
And see the seeds in your palm -
You the bliss of my eye?
For ever since you left me,
The wolf collects me at dawn
A remnant of flesh, blood, and bone.
And I never ask the wolf about his crime;
I just ask him in God s name
About a son of mine
Who has no grave of his own,
So where is he now?
Where can I see him?
Did the wind blanket him
Over a rock on the shores of nothingness?
When will pain rest in peace
So that I can get rid of myself?
I am no more a rib, no more a bridge,
Ruined by the swaggering of the passers,
Not a step in the pathways of pain.
"I didn t scream:
Ouch, mother;
For where is our son?
Oh mother,
Where s our son?"
Lo shovels, plough me;
Lo winds, whirl me;
So that I can die unbeknown.
The wolves have ripped me apart:
The wolves come in the morning,
The wolves come at night,
The wolves come at all times.
They smile their fangs into my blood,
And howl;
And my embers multiply.
They excavate me all,
Leaving just a little bit of mine
Alternating at a hair width
Between death and life.
So for what breed of wolves does
Desolation ripen me in the pan?
*****
The graveyards are open,
But nobody comes out.
So, who could renounce
His hand-pan and four fingers? Who?
Surely, a living man roasted in fire
Is wiser than hell.
So lock the mouths to let the prisons get some rest;
Lock the windows so that no sun can shine through;
Lock the lamps for the darkness to become complete;
Lock the villages to prevent their escape from this land;
Lock the trees to prevent the singing of wind;
Lock the clouds so that they can die full of rain;
Lock the graves;
Bolt them tightly;
And blow in thousands of cones:
"We slip to life on the resurrection day."
We have never been dead any day, indeed,
For how could Death reach out the dead
When they keep to the needle s eye?
Death is rusting in the heart and liver.
Support - would I be your sacrifice - my arm
To hold up the cup;
To extinguish the head;
For my cup-companion is a wolf without a cup.
He drinks my soul with my wound;
He enjoys masticating my patience,
And my patience increases.
But I ask the wind at his steps
About a son of mine;
A son without a grave;
So where is he now?
How can I see him?
*****
To his orbit death returns,
And the orbit is my body,
Its chosen orbit promises me a Last Supper.
Promises that have been always broken since olden times.
He sees with my eyes,
And hears with my ears,
And I see with his eyes,
And hear with his ears,
And my death and love magnify.
I gently talk him to talk,
But this scattered head has no voice but "Aah";
And I run delirious.
I have a son,
Who the rose salutes: "Good morning; Please
Embroider my eyes with those stars in your eyes."
And he responds by granting the rose his brilliance.
Say something, O Sun;
For why do You shine when darkness
Grinds the children s hearts?
Say something, O Earth;
For why are you spinning round
When I have a son who waters the plants,
And grants the rose its fragrance?
Where is he now?
How can I see him?
Lo grave, do not be happy;
And wait for me to follow you,
For I have told nobody
That I m coming with you;
So wait for me to follow you.
*****
What has become of the birds of the sky?
Why do they no longer convey the voice?
They have become dumb since you left;
They are eating in my head,
And whatever happens is null and void.
My son does not glee,
He has never filled his eyes with sunshine here;
Darkness has snatched him,
When his lips poured milk,
That invents almonds,
And the sparrow chants on his palms.
Who can then console the soul
So overtaken with grief over you?
Which hell has finished you off?
Oh would I have been your sacrifice!
His voice has honey;
His kisses have radiance.
As for his Arms; oh what Arms:
Two rivers of amber and pomegranates,
Surrounded by charming angels.
They flow,
Jingling
Over all Heaven
Wherein man is roasted.
(1. 1. 2000)

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