Читать книгу Unfortunately, It Was Paradise - Mahmoud Darwish - Страница 30

They Would Love to See Me Dead

They would love to see me dead, to say: He belongs to us, he is ours.

For twenty years I have heard their footsteps on the walls of the night.

They open no door, yet here they are now. I see three of them:

a poet, a killer, and a reader of books.

Will you have some wine? I asked.

Yes, they answered.

When do you plan to shoot me? I asked.

Take it easy, they answered.

They lined up their glasses all in a row and started singing for the people.

I asked: When will you begin my assassination?

Already done, they said . . . Why did you send your shoes on ahead to your soul?

So it can wander the face of the earth, I said.

The earth is wickedly dark, so why is your poem so white?

Because my heart is teeming with thirty seas, I answered.

They asked: Why do you love French wine?

Because I ought to love the most beautiful women, I answered.

They asked: How would you like your death?

Blue, like stars pouring from a window—would you like more wine?

Yes, we’ll drink, they said.

Please take your time. I want you to kill me slowly so I can write my last

poem to my heart’s wife. They laughed, and took from me

only the words dedicated to my heart’s wife.