The Train Passes By
Night’s stillness stretches out into the distance
unbroken save by doves who, from afar,
coo on, confused, and dogs who bark at ancient stars
as hungry clocks devour our existence.
Out there, speeding along the tracks
the train
passed by. I’d spent the night waiting in vain
for it and day to come… The train
its sound extinguished, distant, still,
a feeble echo in my heart
is all that’s left, behind the far-off hills.
While staring at the dreaming stars, I start
imagining the train cars, the dim light
on rows of sleepless passengers,
imagining the weight of night
on tired eyelids, eyes whose vision blurs,
weary of others’ faces, pale and stark,
weary of keeping watch over the dark.
I picture bitter irritation
in souls that grow more worn with every station
their luggage waiting, as they must,
like luggage, wait beneath a layer of dust.
They sleep awhile, but wake with every thrust
from the old train, and some look through
the windows, yawning, sleepy, gazing into dusk,
then turn back to others’ faces again,
faces of strangers gathered by a train.
Some are near sleeping when they overhear
a hoarse voice mumbling, “Look here,
“These watch-hands seem as if they’re lost.
“How long ‘til we arrive? Can you tell me?”
His watch chimes three o’clock indifferently
and here the whistle cuts him off
the train conductor’s lamp, aloft
melds with the station light in the window,
and soon the tired train begins to slow.
… A boy there, crouched between the cars
exhausted but refusing sleep, he sighs
and keeps vigil over the stars.
An anxious silence gives shape, in his eyes,
to cold indifference, as fever dreams shed light
in strange, red-tinted hues upon his face.
His two lips, parted, bear the trace
of dreams that spread, beneath this barren night,
wings rustling with hidden melodies,
his eyes near closed, as if they fear
that rays of light will alter what he sees,
or that some loathsome thing might soon appear.
This boy, so troubled and sincere,
searches in vain among the others here
for more than the old mystery,
that worn-out story with a thousand chapters.
The world is weary of its heroes’ ever-afters,
and follows it unfeelingly.
This boy…
but the conductor’s footsteps pass
and then his sleepless face
is looking through the glass!
His lamp illuminates the place
he sees their faces, tired features
riders who’ve been sleepless all night long,
he sees sleepy, expectant creatures,
eyelids calling out the name of dawn.
And then the heavy footfalls fade away
into the darkness of the train.
The train passed through a wasteland and was gone
and I remained alone, immersed in black,
asking the night to bring my poet back.
Why has the train kept him so long?
Was he passed by, I wonder,
by the stodgy old conductor
making his rounds, failing to notice him,
inspecting passengers in lamplight dim?
And here I wait, and here I will remain
hoping for the arrival of the train.
Revolt Against Sun
She stood before the sun, screaming:
“Sun! You are like my rebellious heart
Whose youth swept life away
And whose ever-renewed light
Gave the stars to drink.
Careful! Do not let a bewildered sadness
Or a sighing tear in my eyes deceive you.
For sadness is the form of my revolt and my resistance
Beneath the night—divinity be my witness!”
“Careful! Do not let the sadness of my features,
My pale color, or the shiver of my emotions deceive you.
If my bewilderment and the lines of my torrential poet’s sadness
Should appear shimmering on my brow,
It is only the feelings that inspire pain in my soul
And a tear at the frightening power of life.
It is only the prophecy that could not fly and so resisted
Sadness, in the face of a dismal life.”
“My two lips—pressed above their pain
My two eyes, thirsty for dew.
Evening has left its shadow on my brow,
And morning has extinguished my hopes yet again.
So I have come to pour out my bewilderment to nature
Among the fragrant roses, the afternoon shadows.
But you mocked my deep sadness and my tears
And laughed above my bitterness and pain.”
“Even you, Sun? What melancholy!
You are the object of my dreams’ contemplation.
You are the one in whose name my youth sang out,
Chanting in the flood of your smiling light.
You are the one I held holy and worshipped
As an idol when I sought refuge from pain.
What disillusionment! Now you are no more to me
Than the shadow of my melancholy and gloom.”
“I will smash the idol that I built for you
From my love for every radiant light
And avert my eyes from your gleam.
You are nothing but the specter of a deceptive glow.
I will craft a paradise from the dreams of my own heart;
My life can do without your gleaming rays.
We, the idealists, in our spirits
Lie the secrets of divinity and an immortality lost.”
“Do not cast your beams over my thicket!
If you rise, it is for other than my poet’s heart.
Your light no longer stirs my emotions,
For my lot is the night stars that inspire the mind.
They are friends who remain awake in the dark.
They understand my soul, my explosive emotions,
And they stretch to my eyelids radiant threads
Of silver light in the enchanted evening.”
“Night is all life’s melodies and poetry
Where the inspirational god of beauty wanders.
The soul, no longer imprisoned, flutters about in it
And spirits soar above the stars.
How often I have walked beneath its shadows and lights
Forgetting the sadness of an unjust existence,
On my lips a song with a divine resonance
Recited to my mouth by a caravan of stars.”
“How often I have gone to watch every passing light
And compose my melodies in the dark of night,
Or to watch the moon bidding farewell in the darkness
And wander in the valley of enchanting fantasies.
Silence sends a shiver through my soul
Beneath the evening calm and dark,
And light dances in my eyelids, drawing
In their depths the dreams of a hopeful heart.”
“Sun! As for you… what?
What can my emotions and my mind find in you?
Do not be surprised if I am in love with darkness,
You goddess of the flame that melts and thaws
You who shred every dream that rises
For the dreamers, and every enchanting spirit—
You who destroy what the darkness builds
And the silence in the depths of a poet’s heart.”
“The sum of your dancing lights, oh sun,
Are weaker than the flame of my resistance,
And the madness of your fire will never rend my melody
As long as my singing harp stays in my hand.
If you should submerge the earth, remember
That I will rid my temple of your rays
And bury the past that you exalted
To let the beautiful night be canopied
Over my tomorrow.”
Nazik Al Malayika. (1923 to 2007)
[Translated from the Arabic by Emily Drumsta