Poem - Five Letters To My Mother

***
Good morning sweetheart.
Good morning my Saint of a sweetheart.
It has been two year mother
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 cloths
bunches of mint and thyme,
and a Damascene Lilac.

*

I am alone.
The smoke of my cigarette is bored,
and even my seat of me is bored
My sorrows are like flocking birds looking for a grain field in season.
I became acquainted with the women of Europe,
I became acquainted with their tired civilization.
I toured India, and I toured China,
I toured the entire oriental world,
and nowhere I found,
a Lady to comb my golden hair.
A Lady that hides for me in her purse a sugar candy.
A lady that dresses me when I am naked,
and lifts me up when I fall.
Mother: I am that boy who sailed,
and still longes to that sugar candy.
So how come or how can I, Mother,
become a father and never grow up.

*

Good morning from Madrid.
How is the 'Fullah'?
I beg you to take care of her,
That baby of a 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 palms,
her golden coins.

*

I send my best regards
to a 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 a bird,
digging within my conscience,
biting at my curtains,
and picking, with a 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 Amawi,
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, where is Damascus?
Where is Father and 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 vastness of our large house,
and where is its comfort.
And where is the stairwell laughing at the tickles of blooms,
and where is my childhood.
Draggling the tail of the cat,
and eating from the grape vine,
and snipping from the lilac.

*

Damascus, Damascus,
what a poem we wrote within our eyes.
What a pretty child that we crucified.
We kneeled at her feet,
and we melted in her passion,
until, we killed her with love.

 Selamat pagi sayang.
Selamat pagi, Santo seorang kekasih.
Sudah dua tahun ibu
sejak bocah itu berlayar
dalam perjalanan mitosnya.
Sejak dia bersembunyi di dalam kopernya
Pagi hijau dari tanah airnya
dan bintang-bintangnya, dan alirannya,
dan semua poppy merahnya.
Karena dia bersembunyi di bajunya
tandan mint dan thyme,
dan Damascene Lilac.
*
Saya sendiri.
Asap rokok saya sudah bosan,
dan bahkan kursi saya terasa bosan
Kesedihan saya seperti burung yang berbondong-bondong mencari ladang gandum di musim.
Saya berkenalan dengan wanita Eropa,
Saya berkenalan dengan peradaban mereka yang lelah.
Saya melakukan tur ke India, dan saya melakukan tur ke China,
Saya melakukan tur ke seluruh dunia oriental,
dan tidak ada yang saya temukan,
seorang wanita untuk menyisir rambut emasku.
Seorang wanita yang menyembunyikanku di tasnya permen gula.
Seorang wanita yang memakaikanku saat aku telanjang,
dan mengangkatku ketika aku jatuh.
Ibu: Saya anak laki-laki yang berlayar,
dan masih merindukan permen gula itu.
Jadi bagaimana bisa atau bagaimana saya, Ibu,
menjadi ayah dan tidak pernah tumbuh dewasa.
*
Selamat pagi dari Madrid.
Bagaimana dengan 'Fullah'?
Saya mohon Anda untuk merawatnya,
Bayinya bayi.
Dia adalah cinta tersayang bagi Ayah.
Dia memanjakannya seperti putrinya.
Dia biasa mengundangnya untuk minum kopi paginya.
Dia digunakan untuk memberi makan dan menyiramnya,
dan menutupinya dengan belas kasihan.
Dan ketika dia meninggal,
Dia selalu bermimpi tentang kepulangannya.
Dia mencari dia di sudut-sudut kamarnya.
Dia bertanya tentang jubahnya,
dan bertanya tentang korannya,
dan bertanya, ketika musim panas tiba,
tentang warna biru matanya,
sehingga dia bisa melempar ke dalam telapak tangannya,
koin emasnya.
*
Saya mengirimkan salam terbaik saya
ke rumah yang mengajari kami cinta dan belas kasihan.
Untuk bunga putihmu,
yang terbaik di lingkungan.
Ke tempat tidurku, ke buku-bukuku,
untuk semua anak-anak di gang.
Untuk semua dinding ini kami tertutupi
dengan suara dari tulisan-tulisan kami.
Untuk kucing malas tidur di balkon.
Untuk pendakian lilac bush jendela tetangga.
Sudah dua tahun lamanya, Ibu,
dengan wajah Damaskus seperti burung,
menggali dalam hati nurani saya,
menggigit gorden saya,
dan memilih, dengan paruh lembut, di jari-jariku.
Sudah dua tahun Ibu,
sejak malam Damaskus,
bau Damaskus,
rumah-rumah Damaskus,
telah menghuni imajinasi kita.
Lampu pilar masjidnya,
telah membimbing layar kami.
Seakan pilar-pilar Amawi,
telah ditanam di hati kita.
Seolah-olah kebun masih mengharukan hati nurani kita.
Seolah-olah lampu dan bebatuan,
semua telah bepergian bersama kami.
*
Ini September, Ibu,
dan di sini adalah kesedihan membawakan saya hadiah yang terbungkus.
Meninggalkan di jendela saya, air matanya dan kekhawatirannya.
Ini September, di mana Damaskus?
Di mana Ayah dan matanya.
Di mana sutra tatapannya,
dan di mana aroma kopinya.
Semoga Tuhan memberkati makamnya.
Dan di mana luasnya rumah besar kami,
dan dimanakah kenyamanannya.
Dan di mana tangga menertawakan mekarnya mekar,
dan di mana masa kecilku.
Menyeret ekor kucing,
dan makan dari anggur anggur,
dan memotong dari lilac.
*
Damaskus, Damaskus,
apa puisi yang kita tulis di mata kita.
Anak yang sangat cantik yang kita salibkan.
Kami berlutut di kakinya,
dan kami meleleh dalam gairahnya,
sampai, kami membunuhnya dengan cinta.