Return to your land
And I’ll return to mine.
You sowed the seed.
However it’s nourished by the blood
of my brethren.
The orange timber bear fruits of
The olives reek of demise.
It’s on my beloved land,
You could have forged your partitions of
The lambs of the prophets of
Graze on blood-stained grass.
Jerusalem, the land of peace,
the prophets roamed
Gaza nonetheless echoes of poetry,
Darwish and Barghouti.
Holy land, certainly.
Your merciless bombs,
Your cut-throat bullets;
Parts of the transient monsoon.
Spring blooms of timber
Erupting off Qabrs
Pampered by breeze
Fragranced by martyrdom.
(Translated by Anan Ashraf)
Do you bear in mind the day I used to be killed?
And my poetry drenched in blood?
After I fought starvation with letters,
The robust ones tore my tongue.
The black sky above was as darkish
Because the black ribbon in your chest
And the black flag was hoisted
for my “Republic”.
The perfume of burned incenses
Remembered the nice outdated spring.
Wind mocked a smile on its lips
Kissing the nostalgic aroma.
A flea after an extended search,
Reached my scared face
to cowl it with the tiny wings.
My folks walked carrying me
Their holy chants hit my eager ears
Like slogans, I couldn’t increase
And my funeral grew to become
A march I couldn’t be a part of.
My helpless useless coronary heart trembled in anger
Shifting the butterfly bullet it bore.
The blood spilt in movement
Tinged my white shroud with purple.
Six ft deep was the womb
of the holy land
Able to bear its son
to be born into eternity.
“What lets plant on the martyr’s grave?”
Shouted an outdated man.
“A henna” got here the reply.
“Upon the martyr of affection,
Let it bloom, and color
His pale palms purple like blood”.
“No, a jasmine,” mentioned a voice
“They resemble his tooth,
And on amorous nights
Might his beloved’s hair
Untie its scent.
“Let’s plant each,” mentioned somebody
Placing an finish to says.
Each bloomed collectively!
Beside the martyr lies
The grave of his beloved
Hennaed to magnificence
with branches spreading to Quds.
And there stood jasmine
The gravestone of their love
Perfumed by freedom
with flowers adorning Gaza.
(Translated by Muhammad Nihad)
– Fadlurrahman was born in 1995, in Vazhikkadavu village, in India . His fascination with literature and poetry started when he was an undergraduate scholar. He has written a number of poems, brief tales and articles on a variety of themes like Islam, human rights, politics, conflict, liberation, surroundings, West Asia and Muslims of India. Other than literature and teachers, he pursues his curiosity in political activism and theatre. He contributed these poems to The Palestine Chronicle
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