أنا يا صديقتي متعب بعروبتي

Is there along the Tunisian shore a beach … where tired nerves can finally rest upon the sand?

O my friend, I am weary of my Arabness … is Arab identity then a curse and a punishment?

I walk across the paper of the map in fear … for upon this map we are all strangers.

I speak classical Arabic before my kin … and repeat myself, but there is no answer.

Were it not for the cloaks they wrap themselves in … I never would have guessed they were Arabs.

They fight over the leftovers of a single date … brandishing raised daggers and pointed spears.

Their kisses are distinctly Arab — who has ever witnessed … kisses that carry hidden fangs within them?

O verdant Tunisia, my cup is filled with wormhole gall … are toasts raised in celebration of defeat?

O verdant Tunisia, this is a world … where the illiterate and the swindler grow rich.

From the Atlantic to the Gulf stretch tribes … corrupted by luxury, devoid of thought or custom.

In the age of kerosene, a poet begs for a shirt … while prostitutes strut about in silk.

The map of the great homeland is a scandalous disgrace … choked with checkpoints, police stations, and guard dogs.

The Arab world is either a slaughtered ewe … or a butcher acting as its ruler.

The Arab world pawns away its sword … so that the grand tale of lofty honor is nothing but a mirage.

The Arab world stores its petroleum … deep within its loins, by the grace of God the Bestower.

The people, both before the oil and after it … are utterly drained, mired in corruption and beasts of burden.

O verdant Tunisia, how shall we find salvation … when not a single book remains from the heavenly scriptures?

All the warhorses of the Umayyads have died of shame … while mere grammar and declension rules linger on.

As if the books of heritage were a grand fable … leaving neither an Omar nor a true leader behind.

The battle standards of Ibn al-Aas wipe away their tears … while the master of Egypt suffers from a fractured mind.

Who could believe that Egypt has been Judaized … leaving the shrine of our master al-Hussein in utter ruin?

This cannot be Egypt, for its prayers … sound foreign and Hebrew, and its prayer-leader is a liar.

This cannot be Egypt, for its skies … have shrunk away, and its women have been reduced to spoils.

If Kafur once came to power, how many rulers since … have tyrannized their peoples while wearing wooden clogs as crowns?

O Carthage, with your expressive eyes … time itself grows old, yet you remain forever youthful.

Might I have half an island on the edge of the sea … or is my Tunisian love nothing but a mirage?

I am exhausted, and my notebooks have grown tired with me … do these pages possess nerves, I wonder?

My grief is a dew-drenched violet … and the banks of my wounds form a lush, grassy meadow.

Do not blame me if I tear the veil off my anguish … the face of truth wears no concealing mask.

Madness lurks behind half of my poems … and is there not true wisdom hidden within certain madness?

Therefore endure my beautiful wrath, for perhaps … jagged hills might rise up in rebellion against heavenly decrees.

If I scream into the faces of those I love … it is only so that love and the beloved may truly survive.

And if at times I am harsh with Arabness … it is like kohl applied so heavily that the eyelashes ache.

Perhaps Arabness will rediscover its true self … and a shooting star will illuminate the heart of the darkness.

Perhaps a dove will flutter free from traditional bonds … and fresh green shoots will emerge right through the woolen cloak.

Carthage, Carthage, Carthage … might I find a way to return and rest upon your chest?

Do not be angry with me if overwhelming passion takes hold … for desire is by its very nature triumphant.

May all the sins of my poetry be forgiven … for God, in His supreme majesty, is the Oft-Returning and Merciful.