Do Not Complain to Others of a Wound You Bear
by Karim Al-Iraqi
translated by Hatem Al-Shamea
Do Not Complain to Others of a Wound You Bear
A wound only pains the one who’s stricken with its sore.
To share your grief, oh child of man, is quite a bore.
Who among people is sound, without some pain or ache?
Your woes are like a flood, and sorrows overflow.
Your secret hurts, though hidden, leave a crimson trace.
If you complain to one whose days are bright and fair,
Your eyes will burn, and he you’ve chosen is an idol there.
If you confide in one who’s glad to hear your plight,
You’ll add a wound to yours, named regret and blight.
Can sympathy ever free a captive land?
Or consolation be a flag when nations fall?
Whoever mourns his fate extinguishes his hope.
There’s no eye for fortune if the spirit’s left to droop.
How often have I trusted, only to be betrayed?
Suspicion forced me from the path I’d made.
I’ve been a bridge for those I loved, on me they’ve trod,
Across my ribs they’ve slipped, and left me sore and odd.
They’ve trampled on my heart, their home it seemed to be,
So much for loyalty, what value can it be?
Let not despair be my robe, nor sorrow break me so.
My wounds are stubborn, though seared by fire, they’ll grow.
Drink your own tears, and savor their bitter sweet,
For candles burn, yet still with smiles they meet.
Load up your grief and ride it as a steed,
And rise like a sword when blades start to bleed.
For good is a fragile trust, quite timid and afraid,
While evil’s a wolf, so cunning and depraved.
Be shrewd and clever, a thief without a hand,
You would see your pleasures gather in a heaping band.
For wealth and power are statues made of gold,
For which all nations, in every tongue, unfold.
Your pain is mine, oh you who’re scorched with woe,
No tear has fallen without a drop of blood’s flow.
To none but God do we turn, beneath His tree,
For help we call on Him, and cling to Him, you see.
Be a philosopher and see that all of these
Are fighting over nothing, for they are naught but lees.
