I am the Unlucky Lover

Mahmoud Darwish ‎

I am the unlucky lover. I have said a lot of words

And flowing, about the wheat when the swallow hatch amongst us.

I said the sleepiness of wine what the eyes couldn’t 

And I divided my heart on the bird until it flies and until it lands

I said some playful things. I have said a lot of words

About love in order not to love, and protect me of what will be

From the hopelessness between my hands.

And love, to whoever calls it love, who are you until you torment

This air

Adding to the madness of a thirty-year-old woman

And make me a guard to the marble that asks who reaches the sky?

what is your name, love, what is the name of the distant suspension below my eyelids

   what is the name of the country that paraded in footsteps of a paradise woman weeping

And who are you sir, love until we obey or desire your intentions

 To become your victims?

Do not worship until you see the last angel at my rest.

I am the unlucky lover. Sleep to follow your vision, sleep

to escape my past which you fear. Sleep to forget yourself. Sleep to forget my position

on the first wheat in the first field in the first land. Sleep 

to know that I love you more than I love you. Sleep

to stuff the bush hairs in the body of a cooing dove

and sleep to know in any salt, I die, and any witness will be resurrected.

and sleep to count the heavens and the shape of nature within you.

 Hand in Hand

and sleep to excavate a stream of my soul that escaped my words

And fell to your knees..to cry out.

I love, love, love you. I am not able to return to the first sea.

I am not able to go to the last sea, tell me

to where does the sea take me in your desire

and how many times will the small beasts awaken from your shrieks?

lead me to seize the strength of the partridge

On your knees.

I love, love, love you. but I do not want to leave your wave

leave me, leave me like the sea leaves its shells on the shore of eternal

 isolation

I am the unlucky lover. I cannot go to you. 

I cannot

 return to myself.

My heart rebelled against me.

It’s a Song, It’s a Song

1985