حينَ نَمُوتُ…
وتَنسى الرِّيَاحُ خُطانا،
وَتَمْحُو النَّسَماتُ الرَّقِيقَةُ أَثَرَنا،
وتُطفِئُ بَعدَ الرَّحِيلِ الضِّياءَ،
تَذْوَى الظِّلالُ الَّتي عانَقَتْنا
كَأَنَّا لَم نُخلَقْ في الأَرضِ يومًا،
كَأَنَّا خَيالٌ تَلاشَى وَفَنَا.
مَن ذا سَيَحكي عَنِ الحُبِّ فينَا؟
عَنِ الحُلْمِ، عَن دِفءِ قَلبٍ رَعَاهُ الحَنِينُ؟
مَن ذا سَيَذكُرُ أَنَّا عَشَقْنَا الحَياةَ،
وَأَنَّا مَشَينا عَلَى شَوكِها وَاثِقِينَ؟
مَن ذا سَيَشهَدُ أَنَّا غَنَّينا بِصَوتٍ شَجِيٍّ كَنَهرِ الخُلُودِ،
وَأَنَّ البَلابِلَ كَانَت تُصغِي إلَينا
حينَ نَرْسُمُ لَحنَ الوجودِ؟
مَن يُخبِرُ الأَرضَ أَنَّا عَشَقْنا تُرابَ البِلادِ كَأَنَّهُ أُمُّنا؟
سَجَدْنا على صَخرِها، قَبَّلْنا طِينَها،
زَرَعْنا الحُقولَ بِأَهدابِنا،
وَعَمَّدْنا الطِّينَ نُورًا لَنا.
مَن يُخبِرُ النِّيلَ أَنَّا سَكِرْنا بِمَوجِ هَواهُ كَعُشَّاقِه؟
وَأَنَّا سَكَبْنا على ضِفَّتَيهِ دُعاءَ القلوبِ وَدَمعَ الحِكايةِ،
وَأَنَّا إِذا ما تَنَفَّسَ صُبحٌ نُهدِيهِ مِنَّا رَقيقَ النَّوايا؟
مَن يُخبِرُ شَمسًا أضاءَت جِراحِي
بَأَنِّي عَشِقتُ ضِياءَها رَغمَ لَهَبي،
وَأَنِّي كَتبتُ لَها في المَساءِ رَسائلَ نارٍ وماءٍ وشُهُبٍ؟
مَن يُخبِرُ قَمَرًا جَلستُ إلَيهِ أُبُوحُ لَهُ سِرَّ رُوحي وَحُبِّي؟
وَمَن يُحَدِّثُ نَجمَ السَّماءِ عَنِّي، وَعَن فَرَحٍ مَاتَ بِقَلبي؟
مَن سَيَقصُّ حِكايةَ الأُمِّ الحَنونِ،
إِذا ما غَفَوتُ على صَدرِها،
بَأَنِّي حَمَلتُ لَها الحُبَّ طِفلًا،
وَعِشتُ على طُهرِها وَعَطائِها،
وَأَنِّي إِذا ما نِمتُ بَعيدًا،
فَإِنِّي أَعودُ بِدُعائِها وَمَداها.
مَن سَيُخبِرُ عَنِّي رِفاقَ الدُّروبِ؟
بَأَنِّي وَفَيتُ لِكُلِّ الَّذينَ مَضَوا مِن حُروفي،
وَنَاموا بِقَلبي، وَلَم يَغِبْ مِنِّي الحَنِينُ.
مَن ذا يُعيدُ الحِكاياتِ لِي
إِذا ما رَحَلتُ بلا مَوطِنٍ؟
وَمَن يَزرَعُ الضَّوءَ فَوقَ الضُّلوعِ
إِذا مَرَّتِ الرِّيحُ وَلَم تَسكُنِ؟
مِن بَعدِ مَوتِي سَيُعلِنُ أَنِّي سَقَيتُ الزُّهورَ وَغَنَّيتُها،
وَأَنِّي إِذا مِتُّ، مِتُّ أَمِينًا — لِأُمِّي، لِوَطَني، لِحُلمي، لِبَسمَتِها.
مَن ذا سَيَقرَأُ فِيَّ القَصيدَةَ وَيَعرِفُ أَنِّي نَسَجتُ الزَّمانَ؟
مَن ذا سَيَكتُبُ فَوقَ الضَّريحِ:
«هُنا مَرَّ إنسانٌ…
وكانَ الغِناءُ يُقيمُ بِهِ –
كَأَنَّهُ وَطَنٌ لا يُهانُ».
When we die…
And the winds forget our footsteps,
And the gentle breezes erase our traces,
And after departure, the light is extinguished,
The shadows that embraced us fade
As if we were never created on this earth,
As if we were a fleeting illusion that vanished.
Who will tell of the love within us?
Of the dream, of the warmth of a heart nurtured by longing?
Who will remember that we loved life,
And that we walked on its thorns with confidence?
Who will witness that we sang with a voice as melodious as the river of eternity,
And that the nightingales listened to us
When we painted the melody of existence?
Who will tell the earth that we loved the soil of our homeland as if it were our mother?
We prostrated on its rocks, kissed its clay,
We planted the fields with our eyelashes,
And we baptized the clay as light for us.
Who will tell the Nile that we were intoxicated by the waves of its love like its lovers?
And that we poured upon its banks the prayers of hearts and the tears of stories,
And that whenever dawn breathed, we gifted it our delicate intentions?
Who will tell the sun that illuminated my wounds
That I loved its light despite my flames,
And that I wrote to it in the evening letters of fire, water, and shooting stars?
Who will tell the moon to which I sat and confided the secret of my soul and my love?
And who will speak to the star of the sky about me, and about the joy that died in my heart?
Who will narrate the story of the tender mother,
If I fell asleep on her chest,
That I carried love to her as a child,
And lived on her purity and generosity,
And that if I sleep far away,
Then I return with her prayers and her embrace.
Who will tell my companions of the roads about me?
That I was faithful to all those who passed from my letters,
And slept in my heart, and that longing never left me.
Who will bring back the stories to me
If I depart without a homeland?
And who will plant the light above the ribs
If the wind passes and does not settle?
After my death, it will be declared that I watered the flowers and sang to them,
And that if I die, I die faithful — to my mother, to my homeland, to my dream, to her smile.
Who will read in me the poem and know that I wove time?
Who will write on the tomb:
“Here passed a human…
And the song resided within him –
As if it were a homeland that cannot be insulted.”
