Damascus what are you doing to me?

1My voice rings out, this time, from DamascusIt rings out from the house of my mother and fatherIn Sham. The geography of my body changes.The cells of my blood become green.My alphabet is green.In Sham. A new mouth emerges for my mouthA new voice emerges for my voiceAnd my fingersBecome a tribe

2I return to DamascusRiding on the backs of cloudsRiding the two most beautiful horses in the worldThe horse of passion.The horse of poetry.I return after sixty yearsTo search for my umbilical cord,For the Damascene barber who circumcised me,For the midwife who tossed me in the basin under the bedAnd received a gold lira from my father,She left our houseOn that day in March of 1923Her hands stained with the blood of the poem . . .

3I return to the womb in which I was formed . . .To the first book I read in it . . .To the first woman who taught meThe geography of love . . .And the geography of women . . .

4I returnAfter my limbs have been strewn across all the continentsAnd my cough has been scattered in all the hotelsAfter my mother's sheets scented with laurel soapI have found no other bed to sleep on . . .And after the "bride" of oil and thymeThat she would roll up for meNo longer does any other "bride" in the world please meAnd after the quince jam she would make with her own handsI am no longer enthusiastic about breakfast in the morningAnd after the blackberry drink that she would makeNo other wine intoxicates me . . .

5I enter the courtyard of the Umayyad MosqueAnd greet everyone in itCorner to . . . cornerTile to . . . tileDove to . . . doveI wander in the gardens of Kufi scriptAnd pluck beautiful flowers of God's wordsAnd hear with my eye the voice of the mosaicsAnd the music of agate prayer beadsA state of revelation and rapture overtakes me,So I climb the steps of the first minaret that encounters meCalling:"Come to the jasmine""Come to the jasmine"

6Returning to youStained by the rains of my longingReturning to fill my pocketsWith nuts, green plums, and green almondsReturning to my oyster shellReturning to my birth bedFor the fountains of VersaillesAre no compensation for the Fountain CaféAnd Les Halles in ParisIs no compensation for the Friday marketAnd Buckingham Palace in LondonIs no compensation for Azem PalaceAnd the pigeons of San Marco in VeniceAre no more blessed than the doves in the Umayyad MosqueAnd Napoleon's tomb in Les InvalidesIs no more glorious than the tomb of Salah al-Din Al-Ayyubi . . .

7I wander in the narrow alleys of Damascus.Behind the windows, honeyed eyes awakeAnd greet me . . .The stars wear their gold braceletsAnd greet meAnd the pigeons alight from their towersAnd greet meAnd the clean Shami cats come outWho were born with us . . .Grew up with us . . .And married with us . . .To greet me . . .

8I immerse myself in the Buzurriya SouqSet a sail in a cloud of spicesClouds of clovesAnd cinnamon . . .And camomile . . .I perform ablutions in rose water once.And in the water of passion many times . . .And I forget-while in the Souq al-‘Attarine-All the concoctions of Nina Ricci . . .And Coco Chanel . . .What are you doing to me Damascus?How have you changed my culture? My aesthetic taste?For I have been made to forget the ringing of cups of licoriceThe piano concerto of Rachmaninoff . . .How do the gardens of Sham transform me?For I have become the first conductor in the worldThat leads an orchestra from a willow tree!!

9I have come to you . . .From the history of the Damascene roseThat condenses the history of perfume . . .From the memory of al-MutanabbiThat condenses the history of poetry . . .I have come to you . . .From the blossoms of bitter orange . . .And the dahlia . . .And the narcissus . . .And the "nice boy" . . .That first taught me drawing . . .I have come to you . . .From the laughter of Shami womenThat first taught me music . . .And the beginning of adolesenceFrom the spouts of our alleyThat first taught me cryingAnd from my mother's prayer rugThat first taught meThe path to God . . .

10I open the drawers of memoryOne . . . then anotherI remember my father . . .Coming out of his workshop on Mu'awiya AlleyI remember the horse-drawn carts . . .And the sellers of prickly pears . . .And the cafés of al-RubwaThat nearly-after five flasks of ‘araq-Fall into the riverI remember the colored towelsAs they dance on the door of Hammam al-KhayyatinAs if they were celebrating their national holiday.I remember the Damascene housesWith their copper doorknobsAnd their ceilings decorated with glazed tilesAnd their interior courtyardsThat remind you of descriptions of heaven . . .

11The Damascene HouseIs beyond the architectural textThe design of our homes . . .Is based on an emotional foundationFor every house leans . . . on the hip of anotherAnd every balcony . . .Extends its hand to another facing itDamascene houses are loving houses . . .They greet one another in the morning . . .And exchange visits . . .Secretly-at night . . .

12When I was a diplomat in BritainThirty years agoMy mother would send letters at the beginning of SpringInside each letter . . .A bundle of tarragon . . .And when the English suspected my lettersThey took them to the laboratoryAnd turned them over to Scotland YardAnd explosives experts.And when they grew weary of me . . . and my tarragonThey would ask: Tell us, by god . . .What is the name of this magical herb that has made us dizzy?Is it a talisman?Medicine?A secret code?What is it called in English?I said to them: It's difficult for me to explain . . .For tarragon is a language that only the gardens of Sham speakIt is our sacred herb . . .Our perfumed eloquenceAnd if your great poet Shakespeare had known of tarragonHis plays would have been better . . .In brief . . .My mother is a wonderful woman . . . she loves me greatly . . .And whenever she missed meShe would send me a bunch of tarragon . . .Because for her, tarragon is the emotional equivalentTo the words: my darling . . .And when the English didn't understand one word of my poetic argument . . .They gave me back my tarragon and closed the investigation . . .

13From Khan Asad BashaAbu Khalil al-Qabbani emerges . . .In his damask robe . . .And his brocaded turban . . .And his eyes haunted with questions . . .Like Hamlet'sHe attempts to present an avant-garde playBut they demand Karagoz's tent . . .He tries to present a text from ShakespeareThey ask him about the news of al-Zir . . .He tries to find a single female voiceTo sing with him . . ."Oh That of Sham"They load up their Ottoman rifles,And fire into every rose treeThat sings professionally . . .He tries to find a single womanTo repeat after him:"Oh bird of birds, oh dove"They unsheathe their knivesAnd slaughter all the descendents of doves . . .And all the descendents of women . . .After a hundred years . . .Damascus apologized to Abu Khalil al-QabbaniAnd they erected a magnificent theater in his name.

14I put on the jubbah of Muhyi al-Din Ibn al-ArabiI descend from the peak of Mt. QassiunCarrying for the children of the city . . .PeachesPomegranatesAnd sesame halawa . . .And for its women . . .Necklaces of turquoise . . .And poems of love . . .I enter . . .A long tunnel of sparrowsGillyflowers . . .Hibiscus . . .Clustered jasmine . . .And I enter the questions of perfume . . .And my schoolbag is lost from meAnd the copper lunch case . . .In which I used to carry my food . . .And the blue beadsThat my mother used to hang on my chestSo People of ShamHe among you who finds me . . .let him return me to Umm Mu'atazAnd God's reward will be hisI am your green sparrow . . . People of ShamSo he among you who finds me . . .let him feed me a grain of wheat . . .I am your Damascene rose . . . People of ShamSo he among you who finds me . . .let him place me in the first vase . . .I am your mad poet . . . People of ShamSo he among you who sees me . . .let him take a souvenir photograph of meBefore I recover from my enchanting insanity . . .I am your fugitive moon . . . People of ShamSo he among you who sees me . . .Let him donate to me a bed . . . and a wool blanket . . .Because I haven't slept for centuries