The Garden Of Bright Waters | Page 8

give my
aching heart to the wind of the desert.
O erstwhile dwelling of Abla in the valley of Gawa;
And my tribe in
the valleys of Hazn and Samna
And in the valley of Motethalem!
Salute to the old ruins, the lonely ruins
Since Oum El Aythan
gathered and went away.
Now is the dwelling of Abla
In a valley of men who roar like lions.

It will be hard to come to you, O daughter of Makhram.

Abla is a green rush
That feeds beside the water.
But they have taken her to Oneiza
And my tribe feeds in lazy
Ghailam valley.

They fixed the going, and the camels
Waked in the night and evilly
prepared.
I was afraid when I saw the camels
Standing ready among the tents

And eating grain to make them swift.
I counted forty-two milk camels,
Black as the wings of a black crow.
White and purple are the lilies of the valley,
But Abla is a branch of
flowers.
Who will guide me to the dwelling of Abla?
_From the Arabic of Antar (late sixth and early seventh centuries)._
MOALLAKA
Rise and hold up the curved glass,
And pour us wine of the morning,
of El Andar.
Pour wine for us, whose golden colour
Is like a water stream kissing
flowers of saffron.
Pour us wine to make us generous
And carelessly happy in the old
way.
Pour us wine that gives the miser
A sumptuous generosity and
disregard.
O Oum-Amr, you have prevented me from the cup
When it should
have been moving to the right;
And yet the one of us three that you
would not serve
Is not the least worthy.
How many cups have I not emptied at Balbek,
And emptied at Damas
and emptied at Cacerin!
More cups! more cups! for death will have his day;
His are we and he

ours.

By herself she is fearless
And gives her arms to the air,
The limbs
of a long camel that has not borne.
She gives the air her breasts,
Unfingered ivory.
She gives the air her long self and her curved self,
And hips so round
and heavy that they are tired.
All these noble abundances of girlhood
Make the doors divinely
narrow and myself insane.
Columns of marble and ivory in the old way,
And anklets chinking in
gold and musical bracelets.
Without her I am a she-camel that has lost,
And howls in the sand at
night.
Without her I am as sad as an old mother
Hearing of the death of her
many sons.
_From the Arabic of Amr Ebn Kultum (seventh century)._
BALUCHISTAN
COMPARISONS
Touch my hands with your fingers, yellow wallflower.
Did God use a
bluer paint
Painting the sky for the gold sun
Or making the sea
about your two black stars?
Treasure the touches of my fingers.
God did not spread his bluest
paint
On a hollow sky or a girl's eye,
But on a topaz chain, from
you to me.

Touch my temples with your fingers, scarlet rose.
Did God use a
stronger light
When He fashioned and dropped the sun into the sky

Or dropped your black stars into their blue sea?
Treasure the touches of my fingers.
God did not spend His strongest
light
On a sun above or a look of love,
But on a round gold ring,
from you to me.
Touch my cheeks with your fingers, blue hyacinth.
Did God use a
whiter silk
Weaving the veil for your fevered roses,
Or spinning the
moon that lies across your face?
Treasure the touches of my fingers.
God did not waste His whitest
web
On veils of silk or moons of milk,
But on a marriage cap, from
you to me.
Popular Song of Baluchistan.
BURMA
A CANKER IN THE HEART
I made a bitter song
When I was a boy,
About a girl
With hot
earth-coloured hair,
Who lived with me
And left me.
I made a sour song
On her marriage-day,
That ever his kisses

Would be ghosts of mine,
And ever the measure
Of his halting love

Flow to my music.
It was a silly song,
Dear wife with cool black hair,
And yet when I
recall
(At night with you asleep)
That once you gave yourself

Before we met,
I do not quite well know
What song to make.
_From the Burmese (nineteenth century) (¿ by Asmapur)._
CAMBODIA

DISQUIET
Brother, my thought of you
In this letter on a palm-leaf
Goes up
about you
As her own scent
Goes up about the rose.
The bracelets on my arms
Have grown too large
Because you went
away.
I think the sun of love
Melted the snow of parting,
For the white
river of tears has overflowed.
But though I am sad
I am still beautiful,
The girl that you desired

In April.
Brother, my love for you
In this letter on a palm-leaf
Brightens
about you
As her own rays
Brighten about the moon.
Love Poem of Cambodia.
CAUCASUS
VENGEANCE
Aischa was mine,
My tender cousin,
My blond lover;
And you
knew our love,
Uncle without bowels,
Foul old man.
For a few weights of gold
You sold her to the blacks,
And they will
drive a stinking trade
At the dark market;
Your slender daughter,

The free child of our hills.
She