نقولُ الشِعْرَ في كَذَبٍ مَتى ما

نقولُ الشِعْرَ في كَذَبٍ مَتى ما

أصَبْنا صِدْقهُ أمسى كلاما

أصَبْنا صِدْقهُ أمسى كلاما

We utter poetry in falsehood; whenever

We speak poetry in lies whenever

we hit upon its truth, it becomes mere speech.

We hit its honesty, it becomes mere words

كأنـَّا والحقيقةُ في صراعٍ

كأنـَّا والحقيقةُ في صراعٍ

يُحيلُ حَـلالَ نشْوتِها حَراما

يُحيلُ حَـلالَ نشْوتِها حَراما

As though we and truth were in a struggle

As if the truth and us are in conflict

that makes its lawful ecstasy forbidden.

Making the ecstasy of its permissibility forbidden

فَيأْسِرُنا بلا حرْبٍ ونرضى

فَيأْسِرُنا بلا حرْبٍ ونرضى

ويُرْسِلُنا بلا سِلْمٍ حَماما

ويُرْسِلُنا بلا سِلْمٍ حَماما

So it takes us captive without war, and we consent,

It thus captures us without a war and we accept

and sends us forth as doves, without peace.

And sends us without peace doves

ومـا في بَحْرِنـا مــاءٌ لطيرٍ

ومـا في بَحْرِنـا مــاءٌ لطيرٍ

وما كـنّـا لمن عطِشوا غَماما

وما كـنّـا لمن عطِشوا غَماما

And there is no water in our sea for birds,

And there is no water in our sea for birds

nor were we clouds for those who thirsted.

And we were not clouds for the thirsty

أبانَا الشعرَ، في موْتٍ وُلدْنا

أبانَا الشعرَ، في موْتٍ وُلدْنا

على أعتـابِ قافيــةٍ يَتامى

على أعتـابِ قافيــةٍ يَتامى

O our father, Poetry, we were born in death,

Our father created poetry for us, in death we were born

orphans upon the thresholds of a rhyme.

On the doorsteps of an orphaned rhyme

لنا في كفِّ مَن حضَروا سَلامٌ

لنا في كفِّ مَن حضَروا سَلامٌ

وفي كفِّ الغيابِ لَنا سُلامى

وفي كفِّ الغيابِ لَنا سُلامى

In the palm of those who were present, there is peace for us,

For us, in the palm of those who attended, there is peace

and in the palm of absence, a finger bone for us.

And in the palm of absence for us, there are greetings