translated from the Arabic by Sara Elkamel
There is no gift we can unwrap without you.
You are what we need
to make out the trees,
spot an opponent,
or take a stroll through someone’s heart.
Without you, no one would read the same sentence
a second time, breathless,
before setting the book aside
to pace from one room to the next.
And without you, there would be no lines to draw
under striking lines in the books of poetry and philosophy
that now rest serenely by your bed,
after having moved universes;
after changing worlds.
Without you, no one would look anyone else in the eye;
hands would not meet.
No one would photograph the waves that plow into fences,
the snow-capped mountain peaks,
the smiles of children.
Without you, love stories would suffer a deficiency,
and without you
people would not gather on pitch black nights;
they would not light candles or invent lullabies.
Without you, no one would ever know
that stories told in whispers
are the only way to contend with night.
They would have tried swords,
grenades, soaring fences, and surveillance cameras—all this nonsense.
Without you, libraries would not stop us
dead in our tracks,
nor would a flower.
Rocks would be dull.
And without you, massacre victims would not remain alive
to stare us in the eyes.
O terror, without you, poetry would steer us towards nothing.
Without you, we could not fathom the abyss that surrounds us: the universe.
We would never be moved
by its menacing beauty.
O terror: You are the singer’s voice
that travels clearly across the borders
in the Golan Heights.
You are the prisoner; strapped, and mighty
in the morning.
You are the beloved’s name
lighting up, suddenly, the screen in our hand.
There is no gift
we can unwrap without you.
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