Between Two Deaths

by. Hassan Aly Hassan Shehabeldin

Take away my certainty

And give me prophetic doubt

Then let me

  go back to myself as a child

Regaining the world

  as an unbroken child's toy

  and regain my hands

Perhaps there still is a refuge on this Earth

  for some small sky of mine

Perhaps our doomsday has not yet arrived

So we can still cross over our senseless death

  and give the spirit

truce between two deaths a

  so that it continues to live

  together with its killers

  while they set up a trap

  for a death not postponed

  and laugh heartily.

It is a chance to arrange the Spirit in us

Between two deaths

A chaotic world.

The face of Cane

  keeps following me

  and I follow someone faraway

  and similar

Which of us is the murdrer

  And which one is the murdered

  for the crow to say come on.

Which of us will say to God

  that I did not find anyone caring about me

  save my murdrer.

The faces repeated me

Grave after grave

Then with which face

  will I be resurrected?

Every war

I reshape my face

And gather my broken pieces

As a properly formed child

But the wars

  have taught me

  that I am not the one to guide to me.

The prison of these ashes

  is too tight for me

  and the clay robe has become too old.

Only the poems look like my sadness

And the wistful people

  have shared my sadness amongst themselves

And the country

  that has slaughtered my words on my lips

  like the blade of longing 

  each time it hangs a martyr

  on my voice

  he repeats my name

  and my silence becomes thunderous.

I came to it

While the road did not recognize my steps

So I took off the road, not my shoes

And asked God for a new grave

  for a Messiah

  who was prepared for his death.

The civilization of killing

  has crowned him a God

  and prepared its eternal cross 

هدنةٌ بينَ موتين

خُذْ يقيني..

وهاتِ شكـًّا نبيَّا

ثمَّ دَعْني..

أعودُ طفلا إليَّا

أستعيدُ الوجودَ

لُعبةَ طفلٍ لمْ تُحَطَّمْ

وأستعيدُ يديَّا

ربَّما لم يزلْ

على الأرضِ مأوى

لسماءٍ صغيرةٍ ما



لم تقُمْ قيامتُنا بعدُ


موتَنا العبثيَّا

نمنحُ الروحَ

هدنةً بين موتين




ريثما ينصبونَ فخًّا


لم يُؤَجَّلْ

ويضحكون مليَّا

فرصةٌ كي تُرتِّبَ الروحُ فينا

بين موتين

عالما فوضويا

وجهُ قايبلَ

لم يزلْ يقتفيني

وأنا أقتفي شبيها


أيُّنا ثـَمَّ قاتلٌ


ليجيبَ الغرابَ

إنْ قالَ هيَّا

أيُّنا سوف يُخبرُ اللهَ


لمْ أجدْ غيرَ قاتلي

بي حفيَّا

كرَّرتْني الوجوهُ



فبأيِّ الوجوهِ

أُبعَثُ حيَّا

كلَّ حربٍ..

أعيدُ تشكيلَ وجهي

وألمُّ الحُطامَ

طفلا سويَّا

غيرَ أنَّ الحروبَ

قد علمتْني

أنَّني لستُ مَنْ يدُلُّ عليَّا

سجنُ هذا الرمادِ

قد ضاقَ عنِّي

والرداءُ الصلصالُ

صارَ بَلِيَّا


تشبهُ القصائدُ حزني


تقاسموا الحُزنَ فيَّا

والبلادُ التي..

كَنَصْلِ حنينٍ

نحرتْ أحرفي على شفتيَّا

كلمَّا علَّقتْ شهيدا


ردَّدَ اسْمِي..

فكانَ صمتي دويَّا


والطريقُ ينكرُ خطوي

فخلعتُ الطريقَ

لا نعليَّا

وسألتُ الإلهَ قبرا جديدا


لموتِه قد تهيَّا


حضارةُ القتلِ ربًّا


صليبَها الأبديَّا.