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Houses That Cling to the Tongue
By Mahmoud Kiralla
Translated by Tamer Fathy Mabrouk
When I was young,
the train that passed our old house,
with its loud whistle—which still pierces dreams—
and the dust it dispersed
over our windows
—with supreme justice—
was my greatest sorrow.
***
It was enough that it made the walls tremble,
dislodging slivers of the ceiling
that dropped directly
onto our family dinner plates.
These tiny stones,
—which would never grow, never become a house—
had a bitter taste
the kind that lingers on the tongue.
***
These stones were a bitter curse,
distasteful sins,
because those who consume the flesh of houses
at a young age
will never escape their wickedness.
Believe me,
as I grew older,
houses would frequently explode above me
every few years
because of that bitterness lingering on the tongue.
***
I feel sad that life
has always been bitter,
like a slow night train
that laps up passersby from the ground,
leaving a man alone on the platform
whose feet betrayed him,
and whose soul failed to grab
the outstretched hand
ready to snatch him
from the last passenger door.
***
Life is that moment
when a desperate man decides
that he has raced long enough,
like a horse.
He has run enough to stop,
suddenly
since he no longer wishes to keep up.
Life is like the “clickety-clack” of the departing wheels,
while the hand
—remains—
outstretched in this harsh void.
***
When I was a child,
I thought of life as a plaything:
I would move trains with a wave of my hand,
Stick out my fingers so their carriages overturn,
or deliberately open up the rails
until the passengers fell into the mud.
I humiliated thousands of people
who hurtled out of the train,
which my father brought me
from a country that knows trains
only as
toys.
***
When I was born,
the world blew a whistle for me,
and my heart was filled with immigrants.
“It’s the 10 o’clock train,”
my mother says, curtailing her laughter:
“I was sad when you were in my belly;
your grandfather died before you were born,
your uncle was on the war front,
and your father was in a faraway country”
“Forgive me,
the train arrived before anyone else
and whispered the adhan in your ears, my son.”
بيوتٌ عالقة في اللسان
محمود خيرالله
حين كنتُ صغيراً
كان القطارُ كلما مرَّ
أمام بيتِنا القديم،
بصفيرهِ العالي
ـ الذي يخترقُ الأحلام ـ
والتراب الذي ينشره
ـ بمنتهى العدلِ ـ
على الشبابيك والنوافذ،
هو أكثر الأشياء حُزناً في حياتي.
**
يكفي أن الجدرانَ كانت تهتزّ له
فتهبط من السقفِ قطعٌ صغيرة،
تسقط مباشرةً
في عشاء العائلة.
الأحجارُ
ـ التي لن تكبرَ ولن تصيرَ بيوتاً ـ
كانت مرارتُها
من ذلك النوعِ الذي لا يُفارق اللسان.
***
هذه الأحجار
كانت لعنةً مُرة
خطيئةً بطعمٍ كريه،
لأنّ من يتذوق لحمَ البيوتِ صغيراً
لن يخلص من شرّها أبداً،
صدقوني..
حين صرتُ كبيراً
أصبحت البيوتُ تنفجر فوق رأسي،
كل عدة أعوام،
بسبب تلك المَرارة العالقة في اللسان.
***
يؤسفني أن الحياةَ
كانت دائماً مُرّة،
مثل قطارٍ ليلِ بطئ
يلحسُ الأرضَ من العابرين،
تاركاً رجلاً وحيداً على الرصيف،
خانته قدماه
ولم تعلق روحُه
باليد التي تدلت لتنتشله
من آخر الأبواب.
***
الحياةُ هي تلك اللحظة
التي يقرّر فيها رجلٌ يائسٌ
أنه ركض كثيراً في هذه الدنيا،
مثل الأحصنة،
رَكَضَ بما يكفي لكي يتوقف،
فجأة،
لأنه لم يعد يريد اللحاقَ بأيِّ أحد،
الحياةُ هي “تكتكة” العجلاتِ المُغادرة
بينما اليد ممدودة
ـ لاتزال ـ
في هذا الخلاء القاسي.
***
حين كنتُ صغيراً
كنتُ أعتبرُ الحياةَ نوعاً من اللعب،
أحرِّك القطارات بإشارةٍ من يدي،
أمدّ أصابعي فتنقلب عرباته،
أو أفتح له القضبان عمداً
ليهبطَ الركابُ في الوحل،
لقد أهنتُ الآلاف
وهم يهرعون من القطارِ،
الذي عاد به والدي
من بلدٍ لا تعرف عن القطارات
سوى أنها
نوعٌ من اللعب.
***
حين ولدتُ
أطلق العالمُ من أجلي صافرة،
وامتلأ قلبي بالمهاجرين،
“إنه قطارُ العاشرة..”
تقول أمي وهي تُتلف ضحكَتها:
“كنتُ حزينة وأنت في بطني
مات جدُك قبل أن تولد
خالك كان على الجبهة،
وأبوك في بلدٍ بعيد،
سامحني،
لقد سبق القطارُ الجميعَ
وأذّن في أذُنِك يا ولدي.”
Mahmoud Khairallah is an Egyptian poet born in 1971. He is known for his profound contributions to Arabic literature through poetry. Khairallah’s work delves into the complexities of human emotions, societal issues, and the intricacies of the human experience. His poetry reflects a deep connection to the Arabic language, employing rich imagery, symbolism, and lyrical expression to convey his thoughts and insights. Through his verses, Khairallah explores themes of love, loss, identity, and the search for meaning in a changing world.
Tamer Fathy Mabrouk is an Egyptian translator, journalist, documentary screenwriter, and poet. He writes for various news websites, including Correspondants.org, Mada Masr, and Khatt30. He has also published two poetry books: Yesterday I Lost a Button, Story of Garments (2005) which was published by Dar Sharqiyat, and republished by the Public Authority for Books (2012) and Falling (Biography of a Smell) (2020) which was published by Dar el-Maraya. Tamer’s main interest lies in linguistics and sociolinguistics, and he has translated several books, cultural articles, and poems. He currently teaches the Arabic language at the University of Sciences Po and the Institute of Arabic World in France, where he resides.