In the evening, the men came tired from the pasture;
in the evening, the women came tired from the fields.
The men’s hearts hovered on the verge of failing,
and the women’s eyes on the verge of tears.
In the evening, they came and danced till the morning.
The wound became a song,
and fatigue a flute.
But a certain man remained seated in the corner,
the rifle between his hands like a snake,
and life in his eyes a time of clay.
The man, who just looks silently,
doesn’t seem to be watching television,
What is he thinking of?
Translated from the Arabic by Fawaz Azem
This poem appeared in Al Jadid, Vol. 22, No. 74, 2018.
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