مذبح الحرية — Mahmoud Hassan Ismail

يا واديَ الموتى بشطّكَ راقِدٌ

خفقت لهُ الأرواح بالصلواتِ

O valley of the dead, on your bank lies one

for whom souls have fluttered with prayers.

ما ضمّهُ جدثٌ هناك وإنما

حضنتهُ دُنيا النور في هالاتِ

No grave enclosed him there; rather,

the realm of light embraced him in halos.

سَهِرت عليهِ من السماءِ ملائكٌ

تُضفي عليهِ سوابغَ الرحمات

Angels from heaven kept vigil over him,

bestowing abundant mercies upon him.

ألقُ الضحى في ساحهِ متصوفٌ

ورعٌ يَطوف بأقدس الحُرمات

Morning's radiance in his precinct is a mystic,

devout, circling the holiest sanctuaries.

وعوابرُ الأنسام تخطرُ حولهُ

ريّا بنفحِ عُطورهِ عَبقاتِ

And passing breezes sway about him,

saturated with his perfumes' waft, sweet-scented.

تنساب خاشعة وتسربُ عفةً

كمُطيّبٍ يمشي على عرفات

They glide in reverence and flow in purity,

like a perfumed man walking on Arafat.

والفجر قبل شروقهِ فوق الربي

يختار منهُ وشعائعا ألقات

And dawn, before rising over the hills,

chooses from him radiant woven strands:

أفوافُ من لُمع السنا، ومطارفٌ

يلقى غلائلها على الربواتِ

striped fabrics of gleaming light, and cloaks

whose gauzy veils it casts over the hillocks.

ويسوف عطر الخلد من جنباتهِ

ويُذيعهُ من أكؤس الزّهَراتِ

It inhales immortality's fragrance from around him,

and spreads it from the blossoms' cups.

سأل الدّجى أسدافهُ لمّا بدتْ

في ليلهِ الغيّانِ مُلتمِعاتِ

Darkness asked its veils when they appeared

gleaming within its wayward night:

ما بالُ ما أسدلتهِ فوق الورى

وضفوته من حالك الظلماتِ

“What has become of what you draped over mortals

and spread from pitch-black darkness,

لمّا نزلتِ بهِ على هذا الحمى

أضحى متوعَ الشمس فوق رباةِ

when you descended with it upon this sanctuary,

that it became the sun's ascent above a hillock?”

فأجابت الأسدافُ: إنّ مُضرّجًا

بدمِ الفداء أضاء لي قسماتي

The veils replied: “One drenched

in sacrificial blood has illuminated my features.

سمّوهُ في الورق الشهيدَ وما اسمهُ

إلا الخلود بصفحة المهجات

They named him ‘the martyr’ on paper; yet his name

is only ‘immortality’ on the page of hearts.”

ما زال سحر النيل طيَّ حفيرهِ

يرتاعُ منهُ الذرّ في الحصيات

The Nile's magic still lies within his grave;

the tiny particles in the pebbles tremble before it.

وطلاسم الأهرام فوق جبينهِ

قبسُ الخلود يشعّ للنظراتِ

And the pyramids' mystic signs upon his brow

are immortality's flame, radiant to the gaze.

وشعاعة الإيمان تشرق بينها

كالنجم يسكب رائع اللمحات

A ray of faith shines among them,

like a star pouring out wondrous gleams.

وشواظُ هيجتهِ يكادُ على الثرى

يُذكي اللّظى بالأعظُمِ النخرات

And upon the earth, the blaze of his fervor almost

feeds the flames with the decaying bones.

ملْ نحو مضجعهِ وأصغِ لجرحهِ

واسمع نشيدَ الدّمِّ في القطرات

Turn toward his resting place and listen to his wound,

and hear the blood's song in its drops.

ما زالَ يُترع ثورةً من قلبهِ

خرساء مُصفحةً بلا نبراتِ

Still it pours forth a revolt from his heart,

silent, armored, without a single tone.

وكأنّ آخر لفظةٍ هتفت بها

شفتاهُ مزمورٌ مِنَ التّوراةِ

As though the last word cried out by

his lips were a psalm from the Torah.

وكأنّ أجراحَ الأسنّةِ رايةٌ

حمراءُ شهرها الدخيلُ العاتِي

And as though the spearhead wounds were a banner,

red, unfurled by the brutal intruder.

لمح الشهيد خيالها فنضا لها

روحاً يثور بأصلب العزمات

The martyr glimpsed its shadow and unsheathed against it

a soul rising with the firmest resolve.

وأحالها مزقاً صواغر أصبحت

كفنا يُذيق القيدَ مُرّ شمات

He tore it into abject shreds that became

a shroud making the fetter taste bitter gloating.

وارتدّ في ريعانهِ مستشهدا

يُزهي بقدس الموت في الحفرات

He fell back in his prime, a martyr,

glorying in death's sanctity within the graves.

وكأنهُ لمْ يلقَ من كرب الردى

إلاّ رسيسَ ضنًى وظلَّ صُمات

As though he had met, of death's anguish,

only a trace of languor and a shadow of silence.

أعوادُ زانٍ كنّ في كنفِ البلى

صفراً نبذنَ بأبشعِ الكسرات

Sticks of beechwood had lain in decay's keeping,

worthless, discarded as the ugliest splinters.

حمّلنهُ فأعادهنّ عرائشاً

تخضلُّ فوق الهام مؤتلقاتِ

They carried him, and he made them arbors,

dew-moist and radiant above the heads.

وكأنّ بين حنوطهِ ريحانةً

أزليةً هربت من الجنّاتِ

As though among his embalming spices lay a basil sprig,

eternal, escaped from the gardens of paradise.

نسمت عبير الخلد طيّ سُتورهِ

وترعرعت في ريق النفحاتِ

It breathed immortality's perfume within his coverings,

and flourished in the saliva of fragrant breaths.

وترى الشموع الموقدات لنعشهِ

شُعَلاً من الفردوس مُنبعثاتِ

You see the candles lit for his bier

as flames sprung from paradise.

تهتز والهةً وتغضي رهبةً

كنوادبٍ في الركب مُستحياتِ

They tremble, distraught, and lower their gaze in awe,

like bashful women mourning in the procession.

والسّابريّ تخالهُ من طيبهِ

بردَ النبيّ معطرَ الصفحات

And the Sabiri cloth, for its fragrance, you imagine

to be the Prophet's mantle, its folds perfumed.

لفّ الشهيدَ مُطهّراً فحسبته

مَلكاً تهيّأ مهدهُ لسُبات

It wrapped the martyr, purified, and you thought him

an angel whose cradle was prepared for slumber.

حارت شفاهُ الهاتفين حيالَهُ

ماذا تنصّ لهُ من الدعواتِ

The lips of those calling out were bewildered before him:

what prayers could they proclaim for him?

واهتاجت الغيد العوانس حيرةً

ماذا يفضن لهُ من الشرفاتِ

And graceful unwed maidens grew agitated, wondering:

what could they shower upon him from their balconies?

الزهرَ ما تطيابهُ والعطرَ ما

تسكابهُ لمُعطّر النسماتِ

Flowers—what use their fragrance? And perfume—what

use pouring it for one who perfumes the breezes?

والحسنَ ما تلماحهُ واللحنَ ما

تصداحهُ لمفجّر النغمات

And beauty—what use its glimmer? And melody—what

use its singing, for one who makes melodies burst forth?

خُيبَ حين رجونَ أيةَ سلوةٍ

فوجمن من هول الردى جزعات

They were disappointed when they hoped for any solace,

so they fell silent, distraught at death's horror.

يتّمن أدمعهن من طول البكا

وظللن في الأبراجِ مكتئباتِ

They orphaned their tears through long weeping,

and remained sorrowful in the towers.

ودنا الشهيد من القبور فأرعشتْ

طربا بمقدم نعشه فرحات

The martyr drew near the graves, and they quivered,

joyfully, delighted at his bier's arrival.

كحمائم نزحت فضلل سربها

ظل المساء بوحشة الفلوات

Like doves that had flown afar, whose flock was led astray

by evening's shadow in the wilderness's desolation,

جثمت على الكثبان تنتظر السنا

وأتى الصباح فهجن منتعشات

they crouched upon the dunes, awaiting the light,

and morning came, and they fluttered, revived.

حتى إذا وافى الحفير كأنه

وحي السماء مبلج الآيات

Until, when he reached the grave, as though

a revelation from heaven, radiant in its signs,

كادت عظام الهالكين تخشعاً

لجلاله تَصطفّ في الطرقاتِ

the bones of the dead almost, in reverence,

lined the roads in honor of his majesty,

وتعودها الأرواحُ من فرحٍ بهِ

وتظلّ حتى البعث مُبتهجات

and souls revisited them in joy at him,

remaining jubilant until the resurrection.

من مثل هذا الحيّ؟ كرّمَ موتهُ

من سائر الأحياء والأموات

Who, like this living one, has honored his death,

among all the living and the dead?

وهناكَ تحت الغاب يعزف شاعرٌ

بقصيدةٍ مكروبة الأبيات

And there beneath the woodland a poet plays

a poem whose verses are anguished.

أشجى بها الشهداء بين قبورهم

وأثار شجو الليل في الغابات

With it he saddened the martyrs among their graves,

and stirred the night's grief in the woods.

وشدا فكاد الغاب يسجد نشوةً

ويرتّل الأشعار في السجدات

He sang, and the woodland almost prostrated in rapture,

and chanted the verses in its prostrations.

لما أذاع شجونها في ليلةٍ

سوداء كالأمواج مصطخباتِ

When he spread its sorrows through a night,

black as waves in tumult,

وثبت له روحٌ تفيضُ حماسةً

ومضت تلّومهُ بكل ثبات

a spirit sprang toward him, overflowing with fervor,

and went on reproaching him with firm resolve:

ما بال قلبك لجّ في نغم الأسى

وفواجع الأحلام والصبواتِ

“Why does your heart persist in grief's music

and in the tragedies of dreams and longings?

حطّم ربابتكَ التي تشدو بها

وادفن نشيد الهمِّ والحسراتِ

Shatter the rebab on which you sing,

and bury the song of care and regrets.

واصدح لنا بقصيدةٍ وطنيةٍ

تدعُ الشهيد مسعر النفثات

Sing out for us a patriotic poem

that sets the martyr's utterances aflame.

أسمعهُ قصتهُ فإن حديثها

سمر الزمان بهذه الخلواتِ

Let him hear his story, for its telling

is time's night-time tale in these solitudes.”

فانساب وحي الشعر من أوتارهِ

كجداولٍ في الحقلِ منسكباتِ

Poetry's revelation streamed from his strings,

like streams pouring through the field.

وغدا يغنّي في الحمي: يا جنّةً

فجّرتُ بين ظلالها نغماتي

He began to sing within the sanctuary: “O garden,

amid whose shades I set my melodies flowing!

النيل فيها قصةٌ أبديةٌ

والطير قارئها على العذبات

The Nile within it is an eternal story,

and the birds read it upon the branch-tips.

والنخلُ فيها ذاكرٌ مسترسلٌ

هيمانُ مسحورٌ على الورقاتِ

The palms within it are an unceasing devotional reciter,

lovesick, spellbound over the leaves.

والنخل في صمت الرياح كأنّه

نُسّاكُ فجرٍ آذنوا لصلاةِ

The palms, with the winds silent, seem

ascetics at dawn who have called for prayer.

والشاعرون كأنّ مسّةَ جِنّةٍ

خبلتهمُ من روعة الخطراتِ

And the poets seem as though a touch of madness

had crazed them with the wonder of fleeting thoughts.

تلقى أناملهم إذا جاسوا بها

من زحمة الإلهامِ مُرتعشاتِ

You find their fingertips, when they explore with them,

trembling amid the press of inspiration.

كنّا نسير بها ولا حُسنٌ ولا

فِتنٌ سوى الأغلال محتدمات

We used to walk through it, with no beauty and no

enchantments, save the raging fetters.

نُسقى بها البلوى ويشرب غيرنا

من نيلها بالأكؤس الشّبماتِ

We were made to drink affliction there, while others drank

from its Nile in chilled goblets.

والقيدُ يسبقنا إذا رُمنا به

فتكاً فيرهقُ عزّةَ الخُطُوات

And the fetter outran us whenever we sought to deal it

a fatal blow, wearing down the pride of our steps.

وإذا بأرواح الشباب تُطلُّ مِنْ

خلل الأسى والذّلِّ مُنفطراتِ

Then the souls of youth appeared from

amid grief and humiliation, brokenhearted,

حتّى أتى يوم الفداء فزُلزلت

غضباً وراحت فيه مُشتعلات

until the day of sacrifice arrived, and they shook

with anger, blazing throughout it.

لبست دروع النار ثم تقدمت

لسلاسل الفولاذ مضطرمات

They donned armor of fire, then advanced,

aflame, against the chains of steel.

نسفت صفائحها وأفنت ذرّها

وتهافتت في الترب مبتسمات

They blasted their plates and annihilated their particles,

and tumbled into the dust, smiling.

رشفت رحيقَ الخلد قبل مماتها

وتهيّأت لحماهُ مُنتشيات

They sipped immortality's nectar before their death,

and prepared, enraptured, for its sanctuary.

فوقفتُ أبعث ذكرها بملاحني

فشدت مُرفرفةً على أبياتي

I stood, reviving their memory with my melodies,

and they sang, fluttering above my verses:

يا شاعراً غنّى فكاد نشيدهُ

يهتزُّ في الأكفان منهُ رُفاتي

‘O poet who sang, whose song almost

set my remains trembling within the shrouds,

هذا خيالُ الخالدينَ فغنّني

وأعِدْ بشعركَ للشباب حياتي

this is the vision of the immortals: sing of me,

and through your poetry restore my life to the young.’”