Ripening Grain
By: Charbel Baini
Translated by Anne Fairbairn
Don't ask me, my beloved,
How the ears of grain ripen,
In spite of the sun moving away from my country,
In spite of the moaning songs of nightingales,
In spite of the fires of war and the exodus of people,
In spite of the lamenting cries of widows.
My country, oh my beloved,
No longer ascends towards the light
As flocks of doves ascend
To turn light into liquid -
Giving life to fields and hills
And feeding the running river - vines.
My country's been captured by thugs
Who cannot judge between the murdered and the murderer.
**
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