ًرجـاءً لا تَلِـددي Please Don’t Give Birth!

ًرجـاءً لا تَلِـددي

لم يكن بالحسبان
يوم مولدي
والنهدُ الذي أرضعني
جـرّة نسيانٍ
أراقها الغُـزاة
 
أرتمـي على ظلِّـي
أفديه من عجلات القطـار
أسـتدير أمام الحِـراب
كتـروس أجدادي
 
أتنـزَّه على القِـمم
حـافٍ على ساحل
الجبـال بحاري
والمغـاراتُ مَحـاراتي وأيامي
 
الآن كل شجرة تخفي
تحت لحائها حائطاً
ما أن ألمس شجرةً
حتى أصبح
فجأةً في أمـلاك الآخـرين
 
وإذا جلستُ على صخرة
ينمو جناحان وتـطير
 
أين أذهبُ
أين أترنحُ
 
أنا المعلق مثل ظفيرةٍ
تقسمُ ظهر حبيبتي
 
إلى أين
وخلفي الله على المآذن
كالسوط على كفل الفرس.
 
****
 
لم يكن بالحسبـان
يوم مولدي
والنهر الذي حملني
دفنوه أرضاً تتثائبُ
كأنها الأبديةُ
أجْـريها بلا أجنحة
مثل مـاء
إن تبخرتُ أطير
إن انحـدرتُ من شاهقٍ
وتكسّرتُ
صفَوتُ
 
كلما داعبتُ اليابسة
انتفخ بطـنُـها
رجاءً لا تلدي هذه المرّةَ
عُمـانياً
يسـألني
كم عاماً دام هذا القرن
ويدعوني إلى أعياده
أشرب الطاعة في فنجان
وفوقي
منـطادٌ
علامة تعجبٍ
تـملأ الســمـاء.
 

Please Don’t Give Birth!

No one predicted
the day I was born:
the breast that fed me
was a jug of amnesia spilt by the invaders.
So I throw myself onto my shadow
to save it from the approaching train;
I bare my chest to spears
as if I were a shield carried by my ancestors;
I climb mountain peaks
the way I stroll along the beach,
as if these mountains were my seas,
their caves my seashells, my days.
Now every tree hides a wall
beneath its bark:
the minute I touch it,
I trespass into the property of strangers;
the minute I sit down on a rock,
it sprouts wings and flies off.
Where can I go?
How can I stumble away
when I hang here like the plait
that splits my lover’s back in two?
when God’s name lashes from the minarets
like whips whipping horseflesh?
No one predicted
the day of my birth.
And the river that bore me
has gone to ground
in a yawning expanse of endless land
that I cross without wings.
Like water, when I evaporate, I soar.
Like water, when I fall, I am pure.
Every time I touch this land,
its belly swells:
please don’t give birth
to another Omani,
an Omani who asks me
how long this century has lasted,
an Omani who invites me to his revels
to drink obedience in a cup —
while a rudderless balloon,
like an exclamation, floats across the sky.
 

Please Don't Give Birth!

It was not foreseen
The day of my birth / the day I was born
And the breast that fed me
A barrel of forgetting
Spilled by the invaders
I throw myself on my shadow
To protect it from the (advancing) train
I turn in front of/before the spears
Like my ancestors’ … [missing word]
I wander on mountain tops/peaks – I wander on the summits
Barefoot on a coast
The mountains are my sea(s)
And the caves my seashells and my days
Now every tree hides/conceals
Under its … [missing word] a wall
As soon as I touch a tree
I am suddenly (trespassing)
On the property of others
And if I sit on a rock
Wings grow and it flies (away)
Where do I go
Where do I stagger/stumble
I who hangs like a plait/braid
That breaks the back of my beloved
Whereto
And behind me is god/allah on/in the minarets
Like a whip (coming down) on horseback
It was not foreseen
The day I was born
And the river that carried me
They buried it (in) an earth that yawns
As if eternal
I run (through) it without wings
Like water
If I evaporate I fly
If I fall (down) from the summits / if I drop from high
And break
I am purified / I become pure
Every time/ whenever I caress land
Its belly swells
Please do not give birth this time
To an Omani
Who asks me
How many years this century has lasted
And invites me to this festivals/festivities [plural of Eid]
To drink obedience in a cup
And above me
A balloon
An exclamation mark
Filling the sky.
 

Original Poem by

Abdullah al Ryami

Translated by

Nariman Youssef, Anna Murison, Hafiz Kheir with Sarah Maguire Language

Arabic

Country

Oman