To That Final Missile, My Thanks

Good morning, World,
I’m there — I mean, I’m here,
yes, that’s right, in Gaza!
A moment ago I was screaming under ash and rubble —
A final missile sent me vaulting up your way
and now I’ll inform you of what you’re incapable of
understanding!

Hungry morning, World —
not my stomach’s hunger per se,
not the bread broken up for the diet you set,
not the food container you sent as miserable aid
(that got stopped at the rifle’s crossings
and never made it).
It’s not the queues of the hungry
nor their bones poking through their skin either.
I am hungry for pleasure —
well, I mean, I was hungry for my humanity
before your final missile ate me.

Mad morning —
What are you thinking as you watch in silent
incomprehension?
You shake your head, drop your hammer,
and announce a humanitarian pause for me!
Oooooh — thank you!
Let me smile at you gratefully,
let me laugh very toothily,
let my guffaws fill your ears up with wails.

Tell me, go on:
Do you even see it?

Morning of night —
What do you know of the cold that froze my
haunches
as I broke apart the wardrobe
to feed it to the fire?
I’ve already burned the schoolbooks,
the summer clothes, the skulls too,
and the awful sound of explosions —
I no longer care, just like you!

Dead morning to you, Life!
I believed in your disbelief,
I was enriched by your bankruptcy,
Above your fall, I rose.
I’ve no brothers like Joseph’s but I’m stuck
down the well,
naked, I was eaten by your wolves.
With no witness to my tragedy
it’s me who’s shocked by your failures, your
true ugliness, World.

My thanks to that final missile:
you’ve saved the street from a drawn-out wail.

Translation from the Arabic