My people pitched their tents in the sand
and I am awake with the rain
I am the son of Ulysses who waited for the mail
from the North
a sailor called me, but I did not leave
I moored the boat and climbed to the top of a mountain
-Oh rock on which my father prayed
to be shelter for the rebel
I would not sell you for diamonds
I will not leave
I will not leave
The voices of my people cleave the wind,
they besiege the citadels
-Oh mother waits for us on the threshold
we will return
this time is no longer as they imagine
the wind blows according to the navigator's will
and the current is overcome by the boat
what have you cooked for us? we shall return
they have stolen the jars of oil oh mother
and the sacks of flour
Bring the herbs from the pastures, bring
we are hungry
the steps of mine echo like
the sighing of the rocks
under an iron hand
and I am awake with the rain
in vain I scan the horizon
I shall remain on the rock... under the rock...
unyielding
Mahmud Darwish
(Palestinian poet)
