The wind says…
The wind says things to the Jews,
To the Arabs.
Why not in the same words?
To the Arabs.
Why not in the same words?
There is not just one wall in Jerusalem,
And in the hierarchy of sorrows,
That of the children without dust
Comes very early to shake its white linens
On the balconies.
And in the hierarchy of sorrows,
That of the children without dust
Comes very early to shake its white linens
On the balconies.
They told me,
Tiny voice of almond and cinnamon,
They told me,
And they came tumbling down the alley,
Cascade of knees, anger of paper.
Tiny voice of almond and cinnamon,
They told me,
And they came tumbling down the alley,
Cascade of knees, anger of paper.
They did not cast me a single glance,
While I drank from my hands at the little fountain,
Like a beggar.
While I drank from my hands at the little fountain,
Like a beggar.
Three children.
Three children, dressed in another tongue,
Speak to me, all the same, in mine.
The sun, in its blond apron, waits
Before the little school.
Speak to me, all the same, in mine.
The sun, in its blond apron, waits
Before the little school.
After all, what are all these people doing?
What else do they do,
But speak and pass, and then die?
What else do they do,
But speak and pass, and then die?
One must buy the bread,
Drink the water,
Keep a little time for the buried city,
Where the jars of oil live.
Drink the water,
Keep a little time for the buried city,
Where the jars of oil live.
Decipher this history with vaults of hard shadow,
Where the old spent arches of another war lie sleeping,
Witnesses with bare strings, henceforth without anger,
And their arrows lost in absent wounds.
Where the old spent arches of another war lie sleeping,
Witnesses with bare strings, henceforth without anger,
And their arrows lost in absent wounds.
One must keep a little time
For a few steps in the dust,
Where the slow gestures of my father move.
For a few steps in the dust,
Where the slow gestures of my father move.
Come on!
From which amphora shall I drink today?
But,
Has drinking any sense if the stranger thirsts?
From which amphora shall I drink today?
But,
Has drinking any sense if the stranger thirsts?
A stone has fallen
To the bottom of the well.
Look closely, the truth will come out of it all naked.
To the bottom of the well.
Look closely, the truth will come out of it all naked.
All naked,
But stoned.
But stoned.
The great stones of Yerou.
The great stones laid down, seated,
The long stones of Yerou,
Keep silent.
The long stones of Yerou,
Keep silent.
I do not know their buried tongue,
Nor all that dust in their throat.
Nor all that dust in their throat.
The great stones,
With their words, like the commas of birds in the air.
With their words, like the commas of birds in the air.
There is a hole in time,
So much so that the ship is taking water,
And the city plan gives no detail on the matter.
So much so that the ship is taking water,
And the city plan gives no detail on the matter.
No name on the palm of the streets where the future might be read.
The avenues have the stubborn shape of silence.
The avenues have the stubborn shape of silence.
A little thirst escapes from my soul.
A bird, way up there, ignores me beneath its wings.
In vain I signal to it,
Call to it,
It is too far,
Or else,
It does not understand my tongue.
Or it does not love me.
In vain I signal to it,
Call to it,
It is too far,
Or else,
It does not understand my tongue.
Or it does not love me.
Alone, a great round hat tells of the journey,
Its nose to the Wall.
Its nose to the Wall.
Fur come from the steppes,
And coat of Russia,
Did the cold show its white paw
To the policeman at the airport?
And coat of Russia,
Did the cold show its white paw
To the policeman at the airport?
The great black beards turn and dance,
The long silk coats
Hang, discouraged,
Under the repeated rain of obscure prayers.
The long silk coats
Hang, discouraged,
Under the repeated rain of obscure prayers.
Am I their brother, am I their drunken companion?
A child without knees leafs through the old book,
Without knowing there are hopscotch squares outside,
Without knowing that life, without knowing that girls…
A child without knees leafs through the old book,
Without knowing there are hopscotch squares outside,
Without knowing that life, without knowing that girls…
To tell him the school opens even in the evening,
That there is knowledge written on the blackboard,
And has someone forgotten a little blue chalk on the dais?
But he shakes his head and says no to life.
That there is knowledge written on the blackboard,
And has someone forgotten a little blue chalk on the dais?
But he shakes his head and says no to life.
A new sun clasps me, embraces me, I shudder.
I search for the good Lord in the holes of the rampart.
I search for the good Lord in the holes of the rampart.
Yerou 6
The great stones of Yerou tell of my house.
How can this be, how?
And through where did the wind of History slip in?
How can this be, how?
And through where did the wind of History slip in?
I ask my way
As if it belonged to me.
As if it belonged to me.
I ask where the women used to bake the bread.
It is a world in a mirror and I move within the water.
It is a world in a mirror and I move within the water.
Shadows pass,
Who do not know they are walking through my house,
That they are trampling my days and my nights,
Shadows pass over my stammered words.
Who do not know they are walking through my house,
That they are trampling my days and my nights,
Shadows pass over my stammered words.
I ask.
Only the bread answers me with a voice of shekel.
Only the bread answers me with a voice of shekel.
Come on,
I decide that this is my city,
I make as if to go somewhere,
I am in a hurry to come home,
For someone is waiting for me, you know?
I decide that this is my city,
I make as if to go somewhere,
I am in a hurry to come home,
For someone is waiting for me, you know?
I buy two sprigs of jasmine,
I turn around.
Who, but who has murmured my name?
I turn around.
Who, but who has murmured my name?
And the vase — did I put water in the vase?
Tomorrow,
When the small change of conversations runs short,
Who will speak in my stead?
When the small change of conversations runs short,
Who will speak in my stead?
My own pass before me
Without seeing me.
Without seeing me.
They take me for a beggar,
That’s certain,
For the richest beggar in the world.
That’s certain,
For the richest beggar in the world.
It’s true,
Only the bread answers me with its voice of shekel on the marble.
Only the bread answers me with its voice of shekel on the marble.
I am happy,
It is the bread all the same.
It is the bread all the same.
Yerou 7
Hills of Yerou,
Protect yourselves from the cold!
Wool is dear and the shepherds poor.
Protect yourselves from the cold!
Wool is dear and the shepherds poor.
Hills of Yerou,
Your skin is fragile,
And I have seen the thousand little lights of your back.
Your skin is fragile,
And I have seen the thousand little lights of your back.
Clouds pass, haughty as petits-bourgeois
In a provincial town.
In a provincial town.
The Jordan,
Oedipus of passing time,
Seeks his mother, alas! in the salt of the Dead Sea.
Oedipus of passing time,
Seeks his mother, alas! in the salt of the Dead Sea.
The Via Dolorosa is slow,
And the seller of little medals wipes
The lenses of his spectacles.
And the seller of little medals wipes
The lenses of his spectacles.
Why is he, to such a degree, the brother
Of the bare-handed procurator
Who reigned over Judea?
Of the bare-handed procurator
Who reigned over Judea?
The Via Dolorosa goes down without knowing how to climb back up.
The Via Dolorosa
Sells great photographs
That speak of a sepia war.
Sells great photographs
That speak of a sepia war.
And precisely, ah! my God, precisely!
Why
Did I buy this street in tatters?
The burnt-out car,
And the open, eternal cry of the lost child?
Why
Did I buy this street in tatters?
The burnt-out car,
And the open, eternal cry of the lost child?
Hills of Yerou,
Protect yourselves from the cold!
Wool is dear and the shepherds poor.
Protect yourselves from the cold!
Wool is dear and the shepherds poor.
Yerou 8
Who was telling me the name of the street?
And I did not want to understand,
I walked,
I traced my lines in the History notebook.
And I did not want to understand,
I walked,
I traced my lines in the History notebook.
Who was trying to claw my cheek and my belief?
Who,
In the improbable alley that knows me,
Holds out to me the fist and not the hand?
Who,
In the improbable alley that knows me,
Holds out to me the fist and not the hand?
Ah!
Who calls me in that voice of the deaf,
Where great crosses float,
Mad birds,
Long shudders of the wind?
Who calls me in that voice of the deaf,
Where great crosses float,
Mad birds,
Long shudders of the wind?
Who makes as if to believe in my collapses?
I signal all the same.
And the books are warm,
The song wears a pretty short dress
That lets its legs be seen.
The song wears a pretty short dress
That lets its legs be seen.
Hey! Little Moon!
It’s not because I…
It’s not because you…
That I am your brother!
It’s not because I…
It’s not because you…
That I am your brother!
Come first and walk with me in the sand,
Come!
I want to see you look at the sea,
Over there,
Where the sky rejoins your childhood.
Come!
I want to see you look at the sea,
Over there,
Where the sky rejoins your childhood.
Afterward,
Only afterward,
Will I know whether you are behind my hidden face.
Only afterward,
Will I know whether you are behind my hidden face.
The child
He sleeps.
He does not know the day is going to end,
That a little drop of light
Still clings to the wall.
He does not know the day is going to end,
That a little drop of light
Still clings to the wall.
He sleeps,
He has laid his head on the stone,
On two thousand three hundred and fifty years,
At least.
He has laid his head on the stone,
On two thousand three hundred and fifty years,
At least.
He sleeps without any respect.
He has just turned twelve.
He has just turned twelve.
Yerou 10
A single second,
At the end of twenty-one years,
Two months,
Five days,
Six hours and
Thirty-three minutes
Of life.
At the end of twenty-one years,
Two months,
Five days,
Six hours and
Thirty-three minutes
Of life.
A single second, all red.
I do not know his name.
I know only
That he came into this world,
At six twenty-seven in the evening,
On the twenty-second of January
Nineteen hundred and seventy-two,
I know only
That he came into this world,
At six twenty-seven in the evening,
On the twenty-second of January
Nineteen hundred and seventy-two,
There are
Twenty-one years,
Two months,
Five days,
Six hours and
Thirty-three minutes.
Twenty-one years,
Two months,
Five days,
Six hours and
Thirty-three minutes.
The rest,
All the rest,
Can be nothing but white handkerchiefs gently waved
In the transparent wind of words,
The useless wind.
All the rest,
Can be nothing but white handkerchiefs gently waved
In the transparent wind of words,
The useless wind.
Yerou 11
My father,
I would like to teach you that there is on the earth today,
More world,
More flowers,
More fruits,
Than you will ever be able to count.
I would like to teach you that there is on the earth today,
More world,
More flowers,
More fruits,
Than you will ever be able to count.
My father,
I would like to teach you
That there are more tears
Than the eyes can hold.
I would like to teach you
That there are more tears
Than the eyes can hold.
My father,
I would like to teach you
That the nights hide other cities,
That the days burn other hours.
I would like to teach you
That the nights hide other cities,
That the days burn other hours.
My father,
I would like to teach you,
I would like to.
And I realize that it no longer matters.
I would like to teach you,
I would like to.
And I realize that it no longer matters.
It snows on Yerou as it snows in Poland.
And the little rain that is one of the family
Shelters under the eaves for fear of gunfire.
And the little rain that is one of the family
Shelters under the eaves for fear of gunfire.
And the one who sang,
A lute in his breast,
Has fallen in your city, and falls each day,
And the one of the reed too, a naked child,
Has fallen in your city and falls each day.
A lute in his breast,
Has fallen in your city, and falls each day,
And the one of the reed too, a naked child,
Has fallen in your city and falls each day.
I would like to teach you all that.
But all that,
My father,
All that,
There where you stand,
You already know it.
But all that,
My father,
All that,
There where you stand,
You already know it.
On two thousand three hundred and fifty years
At least
He sleeps without any respect.
He has just turned twelve.
At least
He sleeps without any respect.
He has just turned twelve.
The dead soldier.
A single second
At the end of twenty-one years
Two months
Five days
Six hours and
Thirty-three minutes
Of life
At the end of twenty-one years
Two months
Five days
Six hours and
Thirty-three minutes
Of life
A single second, all red, was enough
I do not know his name
I know only
That he came into this world
At six twenty-seven in the evening
On the twenty-second of January
Nineteen hundred and seventy-seven
I know only
That he came into this world
At six twenty-seven in the evening
On the twenty-second of January
Nineteen hundred and seventy-seven
There are
Twenty-one years
Two months
Five days
Six hours and
Thirty-three minutes
Twenty-one years
Two months
Five days
Six hours and
Thirty-three minutes
The rest
All the rest
Can be nothing but white handkerchiefs gently waved
In the transparent wind of words
The useless wind.
All the rest
Can be nothing but white handkerchiefs gently waved
In the transparent wind of words
The useless wind.
He sleeps
He does not know the day is going to end
That a little drop of light
Still clings to the wall
He does not know the day is going to end
That a little drop of light
Still clings to the wall
He sleeps
He has laid his head on the stone
He does not know that it is
He has laid his head on the stone
He does not know that it is
But
The street was small where the fire had caught.
The passers-by watched,
The sun kept silent,
A little water sufficed, an order, a few gestures.
The passers-by watched,
The sun kept silent,
A little water sufficed, an order, a few gestures.
But for the all-black fire stirring at the bottom of the eyes,
For the silence within us that burns up all the words,
For the questions asked in closed tongues,
For the immense injustice inflicted on each one,
But for the hatred become breathing,
For the silence within us that burns up all the words,
For the questions asked in closed tongues,
For the immense injustice inflicted on each one,
But for the hatred become breathing,
How to find water when the source is so far?
How to open the hand if the fountain is red?
How to open the hand if the fountain is red?
The walls
What do they say about all this,
What do they think,
The electronic walls of the world,
The impalpable walls?
What do they think,
The electronic walls of the world,
The impalpable walls?
A little rain answers with the dotted voice of the drops,
A train passes, revolt of iron and sparks,
A plane takes flight,
Oblique hurricane of a rectilinear anger.
A train passes, revolt of iron and sparks,
A plane takes flight,
Oblique hurricane of a rectilinear anger.
Alone, the birds die without a sound,
Unbeknownst to all.
Unbeknownst to all.
Hugo Samuel
(Jerusalem - Paris)
1998-2001
(Jerusalem - Paris)
1998-2001
In Yerou
I walk in Yerou, where my tongue is absent.
But it is the same light, the same voice of the street.
My city, my beginning, my wounds are there.
Everything seems to have vanquished the sea and the years.
But it is the same light, the same voice of the street.
My city, my beginning, my wounds are there.
Everything seems to have vanquished the sea and the years.
Geography loses its head and History reels.
I am drunk and blind,
Clawed by a thousand sands,
Muted of the thousand words that lived in my pages,
I know they have lied to me and that I am all naked.
Clawed by a thousand sands,
Muted of the thousand words that lived in my pages,
I know they have lied to me and that I am all naked.
Phantom of myself, to myself unfaithful,
I question the extinguished glory,
The columns of a temple absent on account of a missed appointment,
Ancient jars of oil,
Swords clad in the little white card of the museums.
I question the extinguished glory,
The columns of a temple absent on account of a missed appointment,
Ancient jars of oil,
Swords clad in the little white card of the museums.
I question to the point of breathlessness,
I ask Poetry for her papers, her travel pass.
I am no longer anything but a ticket inspector trembling with cold
In the early morning of Yerou.
I ask Poetry for her papers, her travel pass.
I am no longer anything but a ticket inspector trembling with cold
In the early morning of Yerou.
You said Poetry?
There is no one by that name at the indicated address.
There is no one by that name at the indicated address.
Long ago
In the conflagration of the red twilights,
I would ask you questions,
Without knowing, without really knowing.
I would ask you questions,
Without knowing, without really knowing.
In the conflagration of the red twilights,
I would tell you what my mother did not understand,
My mother in ashes.
I would tell you what my mother did not understand,
My mother in ashes.
And where, today, to find the unknown of my tongue?
Very long ago,
When my city was me,
When I had no need to search on the map,
No need of ticket, of visa, or what else,
When my city was me,
When I had no need to search on the map,
No need of ticket, of visa, or what else,
Very long ago…