The Iraqi Nights by Dunya Mikhail

The Iraqi Nights

1.

In the first year of war

they played “bride and groom”

and counted everything on their fingers:

their faces reflected in the river;

the waves that swept away their faces

before disappearing;

and the names of newborns.

Then the war grew up

and invented a new game for them:

the winner is the one

who returns from the journey

alone,

full of stories of the dead

as the passing wings flutter

over the broken trees;

and now the winner must tow the hills of dust

so lightly that no one feels it;

and now the winner wears a necklace

with half a metal heart for a pendant,

and the task to follow

is to forget the other half.

The war grew old

and left the old letters,

the calendars and newspapers,

to turn yellow

with the news,

with the numbers,

and with the names

of the players.

2.

Five centuries have passed

since Scheherazade told her tale.

Baghdad fell,

and they forced me to the underworld.

I watch the shadows

as they pass behind the wall:

none look like Tammuz.

He would cross thousands of miles

for the sake of a single cup of tea

poured by my own hand.

I fear the tea is growing cold:

cold tea is worse than death.

3.

I would not have found this cracked jar

if it weren’t for my loneliness,

which sees gold in all that glitters.

Inside the jar is the magic plant

that Gilgamesh never stopped looking for.

I’ll show it to Tammuz when he comes,

and we’ll journey, as fast as light,

to all the continents of the world,

and all who smell it will be cured

or freed,

or will know its secret.

I don’t want Tammuz to come too late

to hear my urgent song.

4.

When Tammuz comes

I’ll also give him all the lists I made

to pass the time:

lists of food,

of books,

lost friends,

favorite songs,

list of cities to see before one dies,

and lists of ordinary things

with notes to prove

that we are still alive.

5.

It’s as if I’m hearing music in the boat’s hull,

as if I can smell the river, the lily, the fish,

as if I’m touching the skies that fall from the words “I love you,”

as if I can see those tiny notes that are read over and over again,

as if I’m living the lives of birds who bear nothing but their feathers.

6.

The earth circled the sun

once more

and not a cloud

nor wind

nor country

passed through my eyes.

My shadow,

imprisoned in Aladdin’s lamp,

mirrors the following:

a picture of the world with you inside,

light passing through a needle’s eye,

scrawlings akin to cuneiform,

hidden paths to the sun,

dried clay,

tranquil Ottoman pottery,

and a huge pomegranate, its seeds

scattered all over Uruk.

7.

In Iraq,

after a thousand and one nights,

someone will talk to someone else.

Markets will open

for regular customers.

Small feet will tickle

the giant feet of the Tigris.

Gulls will spread their wings

and no one will fire at them.

Women will walk the streets

without looking back in fear.

Men will give their real names

without putting their lives at risk.

Children will go to school

and come home again.

Chickens in the villages

won't peck at human flesh

on the grass.

Disputes will take place

without any explosives.

A cloud will pass over cars

heading to work as usual.

A hand will wave

to someone leaving

or returning.

The sunrise will be the same

for those who wake

and those never will.

And every moment

something ordinary

will happen

under the sun. 

(Translated by Kareem James Abi-Zeid)