I’ve been searching online for a poem about being displaced and longing to return home. I think it was by a Lebanese poet, written in the 1960s. I couldn’t find it. Instead I stumbled on another poet I’d not heard of, from Iraq this time – Baland Haydari.

Alone I am
and tomorrow I die with the herd
Alone
and I drag my extinguished night
Alone
My head is here
and my foot is there
and my hand presses
on my hand
…horrible pain
and I feel the yearning
for the spring inside me
dying
Oh for the destruction
and from there
and from there
Oh for the destruction
the voice of the broadcaster
is wooden
They wished for him
to not feel what he broadcasts…
they lie…they lie…
My mother…oh my mother
Here…without my love
or my smile
I sink in mud
I sink in the wound
I sink and you are not with me
I sink and no sun is with me
And not the passion hanging from
my morning
And you will forget me
despite the extinguished
flare in my room
despite the empty
future, my mother
you will forget me
Alone I am
Any my hand presses on my hand
…horrible pain
And I can almost hear
from there
and from here
the voice of the broadcaster
wooden
They wished for him to
not feel what he broadcasts

 

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