A River Dies of Thirst: Journals by Mahmoud Darwish

By Mahmoud Darwish

“There are maps of Palestine that the politicians won't ever have the ability to forfeit: the single saved within the stories of Palestinian refugees, and that that is drawn through Mahmoud Darwish’s poetry.”—Anton Shammas

This notable selection of Mahmoud Darwish’s poems and prose meditations is either lyrical and philosophical, wondering and clever, choked with irony and protest and play. “Every attractive poem is an act of resistance.” As constantly, Darwish’s musings on unrest and loss stay on love and humanity; fantasy and dream are inseparable from fact. “Truth is apparent as day.” through the booklet, Darwish returns usually to his ongoing and sometimes lighthearted dialog with death.

Mahmoud Darwish (1941–2008) was once provided the Lannan Prize for Cultural Freedom in 2001. He used to be considered as the voice of the Palestinian humans and one of many maximum poets of our time.

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The fig tree in the garden. The Lutheran church facing it. Sunday in its usual place on the calendar, and the abandoned well and the rusty bucket. But I will be neither in my room nor in the garden. This is what the text demands: someone has to be absent to lighten the burden of the place. He said: c;l'm afraid' He was afraid. ' He was afraid to stay in the house and went out into the street. He saw a mangled poplar tree and was afraid to look at it for some unknown reason. A military vehicle drove by at speed and he was afraid to walk along the street.

In this way he made the torment of waiting easier to bear, and forgot about it. But since he cheated time he hasn't been on time for anything. He sits on his suitcase in the station waiting for a train that never comes, without realising that it went exactly on time, and it was he who was late. He goes back home disappointed. He opens his suitcase and returns its contents to the drawers like anyone coming back from a trip. Then he asks himself angrily: 'Why don't people respect timd'When death knocks on his door, asking permission to enter, he reproaches it, saying: 'Why are you twenty minutes earlyr' He hides in the bathroom, and does not open the door to it, as if he had died in the bathroom!

A faint sound smelling of wheat from an isolated spot in the countryside . . a fragmented sound divided into improvised sections on the strings of a leisurely breeze, no part too diffuse or longwinded. Leaves in summerwhisper modestly, call out shyly, as if to me alone, stealing me away from the burden of material existence to a place of delicate radiance: there, behind the hills, and beyond the imagination, where the visible equals the invisible, I float outside myself in sunless light. After a short sleep like an awakening, or an awakening like a short sleep, the rustling of the trees restores me to myself, cleansed of misgivings and apprehensions.

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