Nizar Qabbani was born in Damascus in 1923, and is considered one of the most famous poets in the Arab world. People of Shamīefore I recover from my enchanting insanity. I put on the jubbah of Muhyi al-Din Ibn al-ArabiĬarrying for the children of the city. ĭamascus apologized to Abu Khalil al-QabbaniĪnd they erected a magnificent theater in his name. Īnd slaughter all the descendents of doves. He tries to present a text from Shakespeare He attempts to present an avant-garde play They gave me back my tarragon and closed the investigation. īecause for her, tarragon is the emotional equivalentĪnd when the English didn’t understand one word of my poetic argument. įor tarragon is a language that only the gardens of Sham speakĪnd if your great poet Shakespeare had known of tarragon
I said to them: It’s difficult for me to explain. What is the name of this magical herb that has made us dizzy? My mother would send letters at the beginning of SpringĪnd when the English suspected my lettersĪnd when they grew weary of me. That remind you of descriptions of heaven.
Ĭoming out of his workshop on Mu’awiya AlleyĪs they dance on the door of Hammam al-KhayyatinĪs if they were celebrating their national holiday.Īnd their ceilings decorated with glazed tiles That leads an orchestra from a willow tree!! How have you changed my culture? My aesthetic taste?įor I have been made to forget the ringing of cups of licoriceįor I have become the first conductor in the world Īnd I forget-while in the Souq al-‘Attarine. I wander in the narrow alleys of Damascus.Īnd in the water of passion many times. Is no more glorious than the tomb of Salah al-Din Al-Ayyubi. With nuts, green plums, and green almondsĪre no compensation for the Fountain CaféĪre no more blessed than the doves in the Umayyad Mosque So I climb the steps of the first minaret that encounters me I enter the courtyard of the Umayyad MosqueĪnd pluck beautiful flowers of God’s wordsĪnd hear with my eye the voice of the mosaicsĪ state of revelation and rapture overtakes me, I am no longer enthusiastic about breakfast in the morningĪnd after the blackberry drink that she would make No longer does any other “bride” in the world please meĪnd after the quince jam she would make with her own hands Īfter my limbs have been strewn across all the continentsĪnd my cough has been scattered in all the hotelsĪfter my mother’s sheets scented with laurel soap I return to the womb in which I was formed. Her hands stained with the blood of the poem. Riding the two most beautiful horses in the worldįor the Damascene barber who circumcised me,įor the midwife who tossed me in the basin under the bed It rings out from the house of my mother and father My voice rings out, this time, from Damascus
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