Nun and War (She and War)

This is me
that little girl in pomegranate clothes
kneeling at the door of a burning tent
crawling over fire

Smearing my face
Covered in dust from the rubble

Gathered in my palm the remnants of a dry loaf,
its edges fallen into orbit
and my crooked fingers
brush off clinging smoke, pebbles, a monstrous spider
from my braids
Destruction escalates . . .

This is me . . .
that little girl with no milk to satisfy my hunger,
no candy, no naptime . . .
no lullabies to soothe the gazelles in my cradle
and feed them fruit

Alone, I age with every dawn, like a senseless tale,
my life melts like ice
Alone I die like long-lost myths,
like a princess in the dreams of dwarves
of my little knights

In my pink room that remained behind
my dolls weep for my absence
under the rubble of mirrors and walls

This is me . . .
that girl in clothes of dust
kneeling at the door of a burning tent
supported by mist

My hand gathers scattered notebooks empty of my letters
empty of fingers that were
laden with henna

This is me . . .
my tattoo, henna, and musk remain in my house
which has become a ruin of destruction, ash and soft skin
under the door

And my favorite bag, dresses, stories,
and decorated cup are all hanging from an old nail

in a mirage

Alone, I groan like the waterwheels
whenever I shed tears . . .
Then the wasteland surprises me

This is me, my particulars gnawed by the particulars of displacement
taking root in the soul, seeping into its folds
There’s nothing left in my bag but suffering

This is me, that gloomy old woman
clothed in longing

Feebly I chew over the faces of the absent ones,
the faces of my children and grandchildren
whom I left behind: clay tearing the insides of clay

Two keys remain in my palm:
a key to my house before the first Nakba
in Jaffa
with a shadow left to guard the oranges’ wishes
and the second for my house in the north
left ringing with
foam and froth

With my hands I trimmed the vineyards, I molded them with the blood of life
and when harvest came I buried my grandchildren
like clusters of grapes, witnesses over the years

This is me, that gloomy old woman, with nothing left
but stakes of displacement,
my tent pregnant with the tears of life,
memories and floods of longing

This is me, that gloomy old woman
with the little girl and the young woman
kneeling at the entrance of our tent
like a necklace of jasmine

We are the witnesses of open graves
We are the weeping tales
We are the braids torn apart by the diaspora
We are the mourners, the bereaved, the comforters
and in fierce war we are the guards
over the graves of the absent

We are the lilies, we are the orchards of those who have departed
and those who have remained, and those drawn by the love of the homeland
We are the longing

Translation from the Arabic