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Wednesday, November 23

When You Grow Up


My son sits at the edge of my bed
and asks me to recite a poem,
A tear falls from my eyes onto the pillow.
My son licks it up, astonished, saying:
"But this is a tear, father, not a poem!"
And I tell him:
"When you grow up, my son,
and read the diwan of Arabic poetry
you'll discover that the word and the tear are twins
and the Arabic poem
is no more than a tear wept by writing fingers."

My son lays down his pens, his crayon box in
front of me
and asks me to draw a homeland for him.
The brush trembles in my hands
and I sink, weeping.

Taken from "A Lesson In Drawing" by Nizar Qabbani.

5 Comments:

  • "Son, forgive me.
    I've forgotten the shapes of birds."


    you know, many in this world have forgot... wars, unpeace, unrest, destruction, fear, violence... I think there is no chance to remember those shapes, shapes of peace between el banee admeen.

    Lakin, lakin...let's get all together, hands in hands, lets prone unity and defend human dignity.

    Elie Kaso

    By Blogger Sharrukin, at 24/11/05 8:22 AM  

  • As i read those lines i remembered how all my foreigner friends used to wonder and ask why all our songs are about sad stories....

    By Anonymous Mohammad, at 25/11/05 5:21 PM  

  • something to think about,

    By Blogger Sabri Hakim, at 26/11/05 7:36 PM  

  • god... is there anything more touching?? ghalia u always take us in a trip into our dearest forgotten feelings...memories... willings.... with your very touching photos and the well picked words... keep this on... just love ur blog

    By Blogger damdom, at 1/12/05 5:06 PM  

  • Oh so expressive, lovely soon u have!
    Beautifyl poetry!

    By Blogger Milla, at 15/12/05 7:15 PM  

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