The potter . Mokhtar Issa..Translated by Hassan Hegazy

The potter
By
Mokhtar Issa..( October 1994)
Translated  by
Hassan Hegazy Hassan
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It is time for my heart to get down from its saddle..
Walking in the market
-As a mobile potter -
Teasing "Hind ",
"Smiling on Somia's clothes"
And distributing what is available from the turquoise news
To the passersby
Packing the women's containers with Bedouin numbness,
Do not be ignited with false joy,
Oh! You the hasty song!
You will be barren and
I will be proud of the grass and water
.. I'm the first who informed your desert...
About the dance of the clouds;
And made your two ribs get drunk,
I will think of the sand of your in your two ribs,
And the first who lit a light from his virgin clay,
And toured the map,
Aren't these my keys in the doors of the dream elevations?
.. And the first who gave, did not wait for the passerby
To warm with the glowing passion;
Do not spread my concern.
The wind calls things, as I wish;
Eager to lift off my poetry the fronds of sadness,
Tears of sorrow,
I call you: "the soft?
The favored,
The preferred",
I am the last to feed on the glare of names
And the last who bathe in colors,
For you:
To be blue,
The yellow
The green...
What can harm the potter if the color ignites,
And his eyes neither spilled on the memory sand
Nor broke his great miracle
I am the reader of the palm time,
The fortune-teller says:
"The potter will meet you"
-As I always echoed, in the moment's ear,
One wintry evening -
Out of the middle of the pride..
Extinguished... As the orphans' eyes,
You sell the memory..
For begged crumbs,
And sleeping on the thorns of your loneliness
Like the grief of the immigrants,
The fortune-teller says:
(The potter rises from grief)
Walking in the markets,
"Teasing Hind,
"Smiling on Somia' s clothes".
What makes you defraud me?
The Honey hair?
Or the beating turquoise on the pots of the soul?
Now time hides me .. illusion makes you drunk,
And you throw on my questions a rope of silence?
Who taught you piety?
Oh!  how long you are coloring your clothes from my poetry,
Be barren;
The potter wanted so,
And how long I have drunk you from my rain
Return thirsty;
The potter is no longer fond of the sand,
Go away and burn!
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