The Garden Of Bright Waters | Page 8

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 will go to serve the bed?Of a fat man with no God,?A guts that cannot walk,?A belly hiding his own feet,?A rolling paunch?Between itself and love.
She was slim and quick?Like the antelope of our hills?When he comes down in the summer-time?To bathe in the pools of Tereck,?Her stainless flesh?Was all moonlight.
Her long silk hair?Was of so fine a gold?And of so honey-like a brown?That bees flew there,?And her red lips?Were flowers in sunlight.
She was fair, alas, she was fair,?So that her beauty goes?To a garden of dying flowers,?Made one with the girls that mourn?And wither for light and love?Behind the harem bars.
And you have dirty dreams?That she will be Sultane,?And you will drink and boast?And roll about,?The grinning ancestor?Of little kings.
Hugging your very wicked gold?Within a greasy belt,?You paddle exulting like a bald ape?That glories to defile,?Unmindful of two hot young streams?Of tears.
You stole this dirty gold,?For this gold means?Your daughter's freedom?And your nephew's love,?Two fresh and lovely things?Groaning within your belt.
The sunny playing of our childhood?At the green foot of Elbours,?The starry playing of our youth?Beyond the flowery fences,?These sigh their lost delights?Within your belt.
Give me the gold;?Damn you, give me the gold....?You kill my mercy?When you kill my love....?Hold up your trembling sword;?For this is death.

I take the belt from the dead loins?That put away my love,?And turn my sweet white horse?After the caravan....?With dirty gold and clean steel?I'll set Aischa free.
Ballad of the Caucasus.
THE FLIGHT
Softly into the saddle?Of my black horse with white feet;?Your brothers are frowning?And grasping swords in sleep.?My rifle is as clean as moonlight,?My flints are new;?My long grey sword is sighing?In his blue sheath.?Fatima gave me my grey sword?Of Temrouk steel,?Damascened in red gold?To cut a pathway for the feet of love.
My eye is dark and keen,?My hand has never trembled on the sword.?If your brothers rise and follow?On their stormy horses,?If they stretch their hot hands?To catch you from my breast,?My rifle shall not sing to them,?My steel shall spare.?My rifle's song is for my yellow girl,?My eye is dark and keen,?I'll send my bullet to the fairest heart?That ever lady loved with in the world.
My hand upon the sword?Shall be so strong,?He'll find the little laughing place?Where you dance in my breast;?And we'll have no more of