Elegy Number Two Poem by Nouri al Jarrah

The denouement... but above and behind,
our retreat
saw in the last trail of summer
the spectre of a smile,
where flaked rocks whistled in danger,
pulled from under our feet with a curious sigh -
to fade... out of danger's reach.
The sun rose over the rocks
enflaming the shirt of the one who jumped in,
when you did,
triggering the rebound of youth
which would blossom among the thorns
parched the ponderous soul...
dry and heavy the land.

Scree slipping under your maladroit form,
the sun calls for you on the cliff,
taking the weight of the fall,
cushioning your knees.
Alas...
the breath of the thorns,
when they feebly break
weak or pale prayer.
I return to myself
as if it were yesterday.

Taken by a small stone,
as once I was moved to frequently,
holding it in my palm,
then letting it fall in the sun's sepulchre.

I dropped on my knees,
as if the air were oppressive,
the blood on my forehead odourless
... what aroma filled my lungs...
the pungence of the stunted tree.
The winds fell headlong
a wound stretching along the slope.

Only then,
I grasped the thing I once let go,
my smile at play with the thorns
its blurred trace torn, throbbing
in a giddy space.

Translated by Nawar al-Hassan