Passers by in Passing Words

Palestinians forbidden to walk on jewish only roads

Palestinians are forbidden from walking and driving on “Jewish only” roads.

O those who pass
Between fleeting words—
Carry your names,
And be gone—
Rid our time of your hours,
And be gone—

Steal what you will
From the blueness of the sea,
And the sand of memory;
Take what pictures you will,
So that you understand
That which you never will:
How a stone from our land
Builds the ceiling of our sky.

From you— steel and fire,
From us… our flesh.
From you— yet another tank,
From us… stones.
From you— teargas,
From us rain…

It is time for you
To be gone—
Live wherever you like,
But do not live among us.

It is time for you
To be gone—
Die wherever you like,
But do not die among us;
For we have work to do
In our land.

So leave our country,
Our land, our sea,
Our wheat, our salt, our wounds:
Everything, and leave—
The memories of memory
O those who pass
Between fleeting words!

by Palestinian Poet, Mahmoud Darwish

Passers by in Passing Words


Originally posted on Poetry for Palestine:

This poem is dedicated to my friend Genie (Palestine Rose)

When you write raw

You leave your heart exposed

It will carry many cuts and bruises

It might even bleed its life out

Me too, I also write raw

Not to appease
Neither to please
And certainly not to hurt or cause harm

Not to praise or to be praised
Not to condemn or put anyone down
But to heal and ease the pain
Of an injured world
With which I fell madly in love
Long before the day I was born

I hear rivers and oceans weeping I go to pieces
I see the tears running down sky’s face,

I melt away, I go insane

I would peel off the kernel of my soul
I would crush my being to nothingness
I would dwindle and wither away
I would set my heart ablaze
To see a child smile

Take my heart
Take my heart
grind it down
Sprinkle the dust over this tormented world
Turn it to compost
Let it feed love-hungry souls
In the palm of my hand I hold my heart, tender and sore
With delight I give it away
Watch the blossoms budding around
As one child smiles again
Wouldn’t you?

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Thank you, dearest Nahida, for dedicating your exquisite poem to me.