I Spread My Eyelids Over Your Sacred Soil
(Translated by Hatem Al-Shamea from Nizar Qabbani’s original Arabic poem)
I spread my eyelids over your sacred soil,
O Damascus—why must we begin with blame?
You are my beloved—rest as a song
Upon my arms, ask not the reason for the flame.
You are all women; no other have I loved—
Each after you seemed false, a hollow claim.
O Damascus, my wounds are boundless seas,
Wipe from my brow the sorrow, the ache, the shame.
Take me back to my schoolyard walls,
Return the ink, the chalk, the books, my name.
Those alleys—how many treasures did they hide?
How many memories of youth remain untamed?
How often did I draw pictures on their walls?
How many toys on stairways broken, blamed?
From the womb of sorrow, O my homeland, I have come,
To kiss your soil, your doors, your stars aflame.
My love lies here, my loves were born here—
Who will return the years, forever fled and maimed?
I am a tribe of lovers, whole and entire,
From my tears the seas and clouds were claimed.
Every willow I turned into a woman,
Every minaret adorned with golden frame.
These orchards traveled with me,
Exiled with my dreams, they shared my pain.
Not a single shirt have I worn
Without finding on its threads a vine sustained.
How many sailors with their grief ashore,
And fugitives from love who fled in vain?
O Damascus, where are the eyes of Muawiya,
And those who crowded stars with their campaigns?
Gone are the steeds of Bani Hamdan,
No longer do they prance in pride and reign.
The grave of Khalid in Homs, I touch,
And his tomb trembles with unspoken disdain.
O Lord, some living now dwell beneath marble,
While some dead rise and walk again.
O son of Al-Walid, is there no sword you would lend?
For all our swords have now become mere sticks of shame.
Damascus, treasure of my dreams, my sanctuary,
Do I complain to you of Arabs, or all of Arab blame?
June’s lashes bled their backs raw and deep,
Yet they adored their whips, kissed the hands that maimed.
They read history books and were convinced—
When did rifles ever live among written claims?
To Palestine they offered dreams in colors bright,
Fed her hollow words, speeches wrought in vain.
They left Jerusalem naked upon the mud,
Her pride bartered, her honor sold for gain.
Is there a letter from Palestine to calm me?
The one to whom I wrote never penned me again.
What of lemon groves and the dream deferred?
With every step closer, they slip further away.
O Palestine, who will offer you a lily,
And rebuild the house that crumbled, decayed?
Wandering tears upon the pavement, you search
For tenderness, but no father remains.
Turn and look: we drown in our own debasement,
One worships lust; the other worships gold’s sway.
One blinded by excess bowed to his indulgence,
Lavished wealth on courtesans, all earned gains betrayed.
Another, bathing in seas of oil,
Found even linen constraining, draped himself in brocade.
One, narcissistic in his secret soul,
Another drank the blood of the brave, unafraid.
If the butchers of history are my kin,
I renounce all lineage through time and shade.
Damascus, Damascus, my quiver holds no melody,
I ask poetry’s forgiveness for stooping to serenade.
What shall I read of my verse or craft?
The hoofbeats of steeds trampled all I made.
They besieged us, silenced us; no pen
That spoke truth escaped being slain or staked.
O you who blame the slaughtered for their blood,
What ease you find in casting blame so plain.
He who has tasted fire remembers its burn,
But he who drinks venom is not the same.
The noose of calamity tightens round my neck,
Who blames the hanged man when his body strains?
Poetry is not pigeons we release to the skies,
Nor flutes that sing of breezes soft and tame.
Poetry is rage with claws grown sharp,
What cowardice in poetry that flees its own flame.
