A Traveller

This road takes me; a horse guiding a horseman
A traveler like me cannot look back
I have walked far enough to know
where autumn begins:
there, behind the river,
the last pomegranates ripen
in an additional summer
and a beauty mark grows
in the seed of the apple
The road and I will sleep like partners
behind the river, beneath our shadows,
then rise at dawn and carry each other.
I will ask it: Why so fast?
Slow down, O horse saddled with seasons!
No matter how few our dreams
we will cross the desert and valleys
to reach the end at the beginning.
The beginning is behind us;
Before us, clouds bringing winter's tidings.
I have walked far enough to know
where winter starts:
there, over the hill
a gazelle looks for a fawn under the clouds.
A hunter points his rifle;
I will howl like a wolf
so the white gazelle can flee the fire
and the hunter is scared.
The road and I will sleep
there, next to a cave, over the hill,
then rise at dawn and carry each other
asking: What next? Where are you taking me?
I see the fog, but I don't see the road,
nor does it see me.
Have I arrived?
Or have I been separated from the road?
I asked myself, then said:
Now, from this distance,
a traveler like me
can look back!

by Mahmoud Darwish

Other poems of DARWISH (94)

Comments (3)

A hand has drawn this scene before us, the hand of time, the hand of nature, the hand of wind rain erosion, the hand of God created or the hand of change elements in conflict erosion, the hand of love beauty shapes these scenes to the mind of artist, painter poet musician, we all gather here to view these scenes to make our marks of meaning, walk across this scene swiftly, as swiftly as clouds darken the plain, swiftly cross gone or overcast bestow enduring shadows; mountains band all horizons within these valleys, in shadow mountains move move in, shadow swallows land in light tricks denial toning out colour bright spectrums of beauty nature's growth colours, sepia mountain tones reddish-brown rich brown pigment rocks ribs mountain flesh, light lost inks out warm colours lost into dark shadows creeping crumbling detail into shades of black upon grey, thus as valleys grow deeper as plains shrink three rivers in torrents darkened deeper, must flow swifter pushed into shades rushing blacker too deep to see perceive cavernous beds time water rush flow carved out by gouging currents time flexing finger massaging flow, to the cities where buzz bees at work drones materialism pampered, ants rushing creating colony cities hives to embrace or hound other colonies in trade in war in peace in treaties, reshaping their world immune to shadows, busy rushing seconds minutes hours into plan harvest tasks, stealing days weeks years of lives in economies desires, beneath light of sun or neon ants are busy about their tasks in shades of time. What exactly qualifies poetry a single poem as a photo snapped pattern of life lives thoughts dreams emotions feelings expressions artistic or manipulated shadows reflections clarifications of life, does a title define life, work done created temporal or enduring seconds years centuries an epoch an eon? What instant of time observation beauty raw emotion will be framed treasured or cast aside? We are clouds moving passing darkening shrinking the plain, we are water we are life we are light we are sand in the hour glass of time, we are flesh feelings emotions on journeys across the plain the sky about the city, read into life what you will, but all life is a trick of the light, gifted from the sun, split into spinning top day night, cast in clay in time to adorn whatever meaning the viewer imposes within the hand of clay time upon the canvas of life light spanning flesh emotions feelings unified into whatever goals purposes or not are vogue trend fashion culture society time flickering flowing imposed in cloud passages into horizons or nature or eternity defined.
What does the title have to do with the contents? Sorry, but this one lost me.
What exactly qualifies this as a poem? Sounds like pretentious prose to me.