Читать книгу Unfortunately, It Was Paradise - Mahmoud Darwish - Страница 31

When the Martyrs Go to Sleep

When the martyrs go to sleep, I wake to protect them from professional mourners.

I say: Have a good morning at home, a home of clouds and trees, a mirage of water.

I congratulate them on their safety from injury, and the generosity of the slaughterhouse.

I take time so they can take me from time. Are we all martyrs?

I whisper: Friends, at least save us one wall for our laundry lines, and one night for songs.

I hang your names wherever you wish, so go to sleep. Sleep on the trellis of that sour vine.

I protect your dreams from your guards’ knives, from the revolt