By Fathi Muhadub | Tunisia
Translation from Arabic Dr. Yousef Hanna | Palestine
We did not find anyone
We did not find our old house
black tears bows
Cicada eucalyptus trees
We found neither gold nor the family horse
We did not find roses in the garden
Or a butterfly sizzling in the air
Or a dragonfly transporting a precious stone to her highness the queen.
We did not find the blue leopard regret
Or the drunken gull of imagination
We didn’t find that canary
guarding the elderly neighbor
from the foxes of oblivion
We didn’t find a god in baggy pants and a foolscap hat
To empty the cloud of my daily misery into his pierced pocket
To take out our prayer bag with a blind hand
We did not find Noah or the Titanic
I did not find a single friend for the funeral of the unspeakable taboo.
I did not find my little lake in your hoarse tone
I did not find a wide-open door to move from doubt to certainty
From the darkness of my residue to the heights of light
The fire of the mystic let me down in the dense basement
And my flowers withered with the arsenic of the money changers.
We are killed every day
We are buried every day
The funeral decoration wasn’t appropriate
Mourners could be counted on one hand,
The porter devoured the flock of coffins,
And the hole is very deep.
Oblivion is sixty meters long
dragging the dead chariot into metaphysics.
Instead of widows crying burning wheels,
Instead of the priest’s prayer,
Great Cormorants are praying.
This old land swallowed my brothers with a
And the porter hid the flock of coffins in the madhouse
Dear mourners, listen carefully
To the rattle of widower’s tears.
They were in the last night watch of madness
The train will fall into the trap
And travelers will fly to nowhere
Instead of the sun, a deer in the casino has shone on
They eat my heart with golden spoons
Cheetahs don’t think about the uproar of guns
I lost God in the war
And I carried water on my back to please the corpses
I found your mask, O shadow
Your stained face with mud and crime
I discovered the lineage of nothingness
Dust fighting the soldiers of visible
Oh you, nothingness that snatches neighbors in cold blood
O Great Spy!
ــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــ ^ Comte de Lautréamont: was the nom de plume of Isidore Lucien Ducasse (4 April 1846 – 24 November 1870), a French poet born in Uruguay. His only works, Les Chants de Maldoror and Poésies, had a major influence on modern arts and literature, particularly on the Surrealists and the Situationists. Ducasse died at the age of 24.