Winds that do not blow in the evening, <br />and winds that do not blow at dawn <br />have burdened me with a book of boughs. <br />I see my cry in the silence. <br />Night descends, blue, between staircases and stars. I see <br />blue trees, abandoned streets, and a country <br />of sand. I had a home and lost it. I had a home <br />and left it. How close the stars are! <br />They cling to my steps. O blue trees, blue <br />woods, night! we have ended up in a world <br />collapsing or beginning or dying. <br />Trees for severed hands. Trees for the eyes <br />that were gouged. Trees for the hearts turned to stone. <br />In the city, in the cemetery, trees sway in their blueness. <br />The severed hands do not wave, the gouged eyes <br />do not waver, the hearts turned to stone <br />do not move. Will they come, <br />the strange winds? The gardens are inhabited by silence. <br />The minarets have the color of old waters, people have the color <br />of old horses. And the Tartar books are branded <br />with the stamp of censorship. <br />Which country have you come to now? Here, you will open <br />a door to a torture chamber. And one day in a garden <br />you will see your arms, your eyes, or your speeding heart. <br />But you are strong today, say your word. Say it, <br />for after tomorrow you will begin to die. <br />The winds that do not blow in the evening, <br />the winds that do not blow at dawn. <br />I am beautified with the book of boughs; <br />and I see my cry in others' eyes. <br /> <br />Translated by Khaled Mattawa<br /><br />Saadi Youssef<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/silence-560/
