Mahmoud Darwish

  • .alıntı yaptı2 yıl önce
    And the girl is saved for a while

    because a hazy hand

    a divine hand of some sort helps her, so she calls out: ‘Father

    Father! Let’s go home, the sea is not for people like us!’
  • .alıntı yaptı2 yıl önce
    The echo has no echo

    so she becomes the endless scream in the breaking news

    which was no longer breaking news

    when

    the aircraft returned to bomb a house with two windows and a door.
  • .alıntı yaptı2 yıl önce
    And today is better than tomorrow. But the dead are what’s new. They’re born every day and when they’re trying to sleep death takes them away from their drowsiness into a sleep without dreams.
  • .alıntı yaptı2 yıl önce
    Voices search for words in the open country, and the echo comes back clearly, woundingly: ‘There’s nobody here.’
  • .alıntı yaptı2 yıl önce
    The sky is leaden grey and the sea blue grey, but the colour of blood is hidden from the camera by swarms of green flies.
  • .alıntı yaptı2 yıl önce
    The call to prayer rises to accompany the indistinguishable funerals: coffins hastily raised in the air, hastily buried – no time to carry out the rites, more dead are arriving at speed from other raids, individually or in groups, or a whole family with no orphans or grieving parents left behind.
  • .alıntı yaptı2 yıl önce
    ‘If it weren’t for my mysterious need for poetry, I wouldn’t need anything,’ says the poet, whose enthusiasm has waned so his mistakes have become less frequent.
  • .alıntı yaptı2 yıl önce
    The summer only rarely lends itself to verse. The summer is a prose poem which takes no interest in the eagles circling high above.
  • .alıntı yaptı2 yıl önce
    An autumnal summer on the hills is like a prose poem.
  • .alıntı yaptı2 yıl önce
    I would yearn for nothing

    no yesterday passing, no tomorrow to come

    and my present neither advancing nor retreating

    Nothing happening to me!
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