Many, many years ago
When I was twenty-three
I got married to a widow
Pretty as could be.
This widow had a grown-up daughter
With flowing hair of red.
My father fell in love with her,
And soon the two were wed.
Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne’er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.
Not one of all the purple Host
Who took the Flag today
Can tell the definition
So clear of Victory
As he defeated-dying
On whose forbidden ear
The distant strains of triumph
Burst agonized and clear!
I kiss Grandma’s wrinkled hands
My little head
Becomes a hundred years old.
The clouds outdistance me
The birds fly faster away
Alone on the grass I lie
Trees have played and still a crucial part in our lives. I still remember how often I was asked to write essays about tress when I was at school, probably up to the tenth grade. Luckily enough, I managed to find the English version of a poem that I used in one of the essays that I had read in an Arabic Magazine;
ثــــوب الـدرويـــش
يــمــسك بالأرض
يــديرهــا فتتــيه
The robe of the dervish
Holds the Earth tight
Turns it; it goes astray
دوار الــنــــشوة
يــصـــيــب صــــانــع الــفــخــــار
يـــغــدو مـــزهــريـــة
Dizziness of ecstasy
Hits the pottery maker.
He becomes a vase.