Sidetracks XXIV

tanks and thorns     Ramallah besieged city

treaded tracks of night roll over the heart of fire

spread out the ancient map     west of the Jordan River

a wisp of spring wind opens the flowers of the dead

pass through a grove of olive trees     climb over a wall

hurry by that rooster with raised feathers

chase after a small donkey     mind the minefield

drink freely from the basin of a stone well

open the second page of the new century

Jerusalem     the gods on the Temple Mount

stay for a stretch     gasp for breath     fly away

empty sleeves     pilgrims memorize the creeds

in the name of God or the people

pendulum     arises out of an inner motive force

to witness suffering     cover your eyes

count the meteors in earthen jars

and the tanks advance inch by inch

Al-Kasaba Theatre at the heart of the city     eye of the storm

a spotlight beams down on Darwish

words are illuminated     etched on the water

security cameras     the ceaseless zooming in on details

each second to second pulses—where the heart resides

tanks close in on the line of defense of the mother tongue

Arafat     forever wearing his checkered keffiyeh

from freedom fighter to president—a smiling mask

back against the precipice weary of the assassin within

water lotus fast asleep at the president’s office

revolution eventually catches up with its shadow

three days later tanks attack the official residence

Darwish says to me     on the matter of freedom

the pace of poets and politicians is not the same

Saramago astounds with a word

Blindness     groping fumbling despot days

harvests the light it didn’t sow

volcano in metaphor set free

sidereal chorus     pushes the hospital bed

rivulets shimmer across the textbook

rooftops drift along the world of dust

a kite     pulls the unseen hands

Gaza corridor     cooking smoke more desperate than hunger

follow the dirt road around a corner     years throb

the Mediterranean Sea exhales the breath of ten million horses

a match strikes for a lifetime     sky

crashes down     suffering fills with shards of glass

becomes bound to memory     brothers in gunsmoke

fighting the current to chase the homogenous race

dry this bitter cup of wine for the gods

O Darwish     you guide me along the track

knocking on the gate of midnight     my torchbearer

white scarf     mother tongue centers the breath

and the pages of the book flicker with light

from birth to imprisonment     poetry grows

for lovers to savor the salt of time

when the hurricane tries to blow through the eye of a needle

he uses the heart to make a fist