The Last Train Has Stopped
(From Fewer Roses, 1986)
The last train has stopped at the last platform. No one is there
to save the roses, no doves to alight on a woman made of words.
Time has ended. The ode fares no better than the foam.
Don’t put faith in our trains, love. Don’t wait for anyone in the crowd.
The last train has stopped at the last platform. But no one
can cast the reflection of Narcissus back on the mirrors of night.
Where can I write my latest account of the body’s incarnation?
It’s the end of what was bound to end! Where is that which ends?
Where can I free myself from the homeland of the body?
Don’t put faith in our trains, love. The last dove flew away.
The last train has stopped at the last platform. And no one was there.
(translated by Munir Akash and Carolyn Forché)
Of all the poems by Mahmoud Darwish cited in the wake of his unexpected death a week ago, the one above, posted by Elizabeth, is the most beautiful.
“So leave our land. Our shore, our sea. Our wheat, our salt, our wound,” he had written. “Take your portion from our blood and go away.” From this news-report.
[Update: A report on the funeral, which is also a celebration of poetry and Arab life.]
