WILL I BECOME A PALM TREE
Translated by Amirali Ghasemi &
Bahar Ahmadi Far
Translated by Amirali Ghasemi &
Bahar Ahmadi Far
Will I become a palm tree,
a body scorched, scarred, aching?
A green head, shoulders heavy
with half-ripe dates.
In the searing season of ripening,
I sleep standing,
my feet on tiles,
a thin breath of air touching the ground.
The tower rises,
and grief still clings to my brown bones.
The wind and my hands arrange the branches,
hoping for rotab.
I give them rain.
At the end of a dusty road,
packed with clods of earth,
loud with unrest.
I do not give dates--
yet when I did,
I saw the harvesters claiming the palms,
conquering the trees
in the fever of half-ripe fruit.
They pour them
into green mesh sacks.
I wondered about the palms
along Umm al-Jawahir Street,
or Muhammad Bin Khalid Street.
But I did not sit to harvest rotab.
In this grove,
I refuse--
the bird shaking my shoulders,
this soil,
this water.
Sip by sip,
from the desert inside me,
now I want sweet violets.
If I produce rotab,
they will be red,
and in my courage,
they will catch fire.
I comb my hair every day,
still standing tall,
neatly aligned.
Among all the palms,
I stand in order.
We are the same color,
disciplined, systematic.
We are counted.
My name is One-Five-Forty.
The clerk below opens the ledger,
writes something down.
He calls out two people from a distance--
matching navy uniforms.
They run,
point to my head.
Perhaps I was given a bad name.
They cut my green hair
to make a kapu basket.
But what use is a green basket
When the curse of the tree
is to bear rotab?
I gave rotab leafless,
not your share.
The birds ate them.
Bless them.
May the sweetness of dates
warm their bodies.
a body scorched, scarred, aching?
A green head, shoulders heavy
with half-ripe dates.
In the searing season of ripening,
I sleep standing,
my feet on tiles,
a thin breath of air touching the ground.
The tower rises,
and grief still clings to my brown bones.
The wind and my hands arrange the branches,
hoping for rotab.
I give them rain.
At the end of a dusty road,
packed with clods of earth,
loud with unrest.
I do not give dates--
yet when I did,
I saw the harvesters claiming the palms,
conquering the trees
in the fever of half-ripe fruit.
They pour them
into green mesh sacks.
I wondered about the palms
along Umm al-Jawahir Street,
or Muhammad Bin Khalid Street.
But I did not sit to harvest rotab.
In this grove,
I refuse--
the bird shaking my shoulders,
this soil,
this water.
Sip by sip,
from the desert inside me,
now I want sweet violets.
If I produce rotab,
they will be red,
and in my courage,
they will catch fire.
I comb my hair every day,
still standing tall,
neatly aligned.
Among all the palms,
I stand in order.
We are the same color,
disciplined, systematic.
We are counted.
My name is One-Five-Forty.
The clerk below opens the ledger,
writes something down.
He calls out two people from a distance--
matching navy uniforms.
They run,
point to my head.
Perhaps I was given a bad name.
They cut my green hair
to make a kapu basket.
But what use is a green basket
When the curse of the tree
is to bear rotab?
I gave rotab leafless,
not your share.
The birds ate them.
Bless them.
May the sweetness of dates
warm their bodies.