Exile

Bezañ oa un amzer pa lennen barzhonegoù arabek, evel re Abdul Wahab al-Bayati ha Mahmoud Darwish. Da skouer, evit hemañ, Tonioù kig denel, un dastumadenn graet gant Denys Johnson-Davies (The music of human flesh, London: Heinemann, 1980). Pe Unfortunately, it was Paradise (Berkeley: UC Press, 2003), leun a gezeg, poultrenn hentoù forc’het, mogerioù, kafe ar vamm (ger), c’hwezh bleunioù amandez, ha soñjoù an harlu, evel e

Who am I, without exile?
Stranger on the river bank,
like the river, water binds me to your name.
Nothing brings me back from this distance
to the oasis: neither war nor peace.
Nothing grants me entry into the gospels.
Nothing. Nothing shines from the shores
of ebb and flow between the Tigris and the Nile.
[….]
We have become weightless,
as light as our dwellings in distant winds.

Hadet stank eo skridoù Mahmoud Darwish gant skeudennoù ha mennozioù ar Bibl, istor Gilgamesh, hag all. Amañ, Salm 137 (kaset o doa soñj diñ eus ar Salm-se ivez skridoù Mourid Barghouti):

As fate would have it
[to Rashed Hussein]
On Fifth Avenue he greeted me and burst into tears.
He leaned against a wall of glass
… New York is without willows.
He made me cry, and water returned to its rivers.
We had coffee, and too soon went separate ways.
For twenty years I have known him to be forty.
Tall and sad like the hymns of sea coasts.
He used to arrive like a sword dipped in wine,
and leave like the end of a prayer.
He used to read his poems at Christo’s
when the city of Acre was just rising from sleep
and wading in the water. [….]