10 I open the drawers of memory One . . . then another I remember my father . . . Coming out of his workshop on Mu’awiya Alley I remember the horse-drawn carts . . . And the sellers of prickly pears . . . And the cafés of al-Rubwa That nearly—after five flasks of ‘araq— Fall into the river I remember the colored towels As they dance on the door of Hammam al-Khayyatin As if they were celebrating their national holiday. I remember the Damascene houses With their copper doorknobs And their ceilings decorated with glazed tiles And their interior courtyards That remind you of descriptions of heaven . . . Nizar Qabbani
Posted on: Sun, 30 Jun 2013 20:41:31 +0000
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