Friday, May 3
AT A POETRY FESTIVAL
In front of each poet was the name of their country,
but in front of me
there was only “Jerusalem.”
How ghastly your name is, my little country,
your name is all I have left,
I sleep in it
and wake with it.
Your name’s like a ship with no hope of arriving,
no hope of returning….
It never arrives, and it never returns.
It never arrives, and it never goes under.
(Najwan Darwish,
translated from Arabic by Kareem James Abu-Zeid)