Another Day Will Come – Mahmoud Darwish

Another day will come, a womanly day

diaphanous in metaphor, complete in being,

diamond and processional in visitation, sunny,

flexible, with a light shadow. No one will feel

a desire for suicide or for leaving. All 

things, outside the past, natural and real,

will be synonyms of their early traits. As if time

is slumbering on vacation… “Extend your lovely

beauty-time. Sunbathe in the sun of your silken breasts,

and wait until good omen arrives. Later

we will grow older. We have enough time

to grow older after this day…”/

Another day will come, a womanly day

songlike in gesture, lapis in greeting

and in phrase. All things will be feminine outside

the past. Water will flow from rock’s bosom.

No dust, no drought, no defeat.

And a dove will sleep in the afternoon in an abandoned 

combat tank if it doesn’t find a small nest

in the lovers’ bed… 

To My Mother – Mahmoud Darwish

I long for my mother’s bread My mother’s coffee 

Her touch 

Childhood memories grow up in me 

Day after day 

I must be worth my life 

At the hour of my death 

Worth the tears of my mother. 

And if I come back one day 

Take me as a veil to your eyelashes 

Cover my bones with the grass 

Blessed by your footsteps 

Bind us together 

With a lock of your hair 

With a thread that trails from the back of your dress 

I might become immortal 

Become a God 

If I touch the depths of your heart. 

If I come back 

Use me as wood to feed your fire 

As the clothesline on the roof of your house 

Without your blessing 

I am too weak to stand. 

I am old 

Give me back the star maps of childhood 

So that I 

Along with the swallows 

Can chart the path 

Back to your waiting nest. 

Palestine – Mahmoud Darwish 

This land gives us

all that makes life worth living:

April’s blushing advances,

the aroma of bread at dawn,

a woman’s haranguing of men,

the poetry of Aeschylus,

love’s trembling beginning,

moss on a stone

mothers dancing on a flute’s thread

and the invaders’ fear of memories.
This land give us

all that makes life worth living:

September’s rustling end,

a woman leaving forty behind with her apricots,

an hour of sunlight in prison,

clouds reflecting swarms of insects,

a people’s applause for those who laugh at their erasure,

and the tyrant’s fear of songs.
This land give us

all that makes life worth living:

Lady Earth, mother of all beginnings and endings,

She was called Palestine

and she is still called Palestine. 

My Lady, because you are my Lady, I deserve life. 

Senses – Rabindranath Tagore

Deliverance is not for me in renunciation. 

I feel the embrace of freedom in a thousand bonds of delight. 
Thou ever pourest for me the fresh draught of thy wine of various 

colours and fragrance, filling this earthen vessel to the brim. 
My world will light its hundred different lamps with thy flame 

and place them before the altar of thy temple. 
No, I will never shut the doors of my senses. 

The delights of sight and hearing and touch will bear thy delight. 
Yes, all my illusions will burn into illumination of joy, 

and all my desires ripen into fruits of love. 

Still Heart – Rabindranath Tagore

When I give up the helm 

I know that the time has come for thee to take it. 

What there is to do will be instantly done. 

Vain is this struggle. 
Then take away your hands 

and silently put up with your defeat, my heart, 

and think it your good fortune to sit perfectly still 

where you are placed. 
These my lamps are blown out at every little puff of wind, 

and trying to light them I forget all else again and again.
But I shall be wise this time and wait in the dark, 

spreading my mat on the floor; 

and whenever it is thy pleasure, my lord, 

come silently and take thy seat here.

Paper Boats – Rabindranath Tagore

Day by day I float my paper boats one by one down the running 


In bid black letters I write my name on them and the name of 

the village where I live. 

I hope that someone in some strange land will find them and 

know who I am. 

I load my little boats with shiuli flower from our garden, and 

hope that these blooms of the dawn will be carried safely to land 

in the night. 

I launch my paper boats and look up into the sky and see the 

little clouds setting thee white bulging sails. 

I know not what playmate of mine in the sky sends them down 

the air to race with my boats! 

When night comes I bury my face in my arms and dream that my 

paper boats float on and on under the midnight stars. 

The fairies of sleep are sailing in them, and the lading ins 

their baskets full of dreams.

Lucy – Poems


STRANGE fits of passion have I known: 

And I will dare to tell, 

But in the lover’s ear alone, 

What once to me befell. 
When she I loved look’d every day 

Fresh as a rose in June, 

I to her cottage bent my way, 

Beneath an evening moon. 
Upon the moon I fix’d my eye, 

All over the wide lea; 

With quickening pace my horse drew nigh 

Those paths so dear to me. 
And now we reach’d the orchard-plot; 

And, as we climb’d the hill, 

The sinking moon to Lucy’s cot 

Came near and nearer still. 
In one of those sweet dreams I slept, 

Kind Nature’s gentlest boon! 

And all the while my eyes I kept 

On the descending moon. 
My horse moved on; hoof after hoof 

He raised, and never stopp’d: 

When down behind the cottage roof, 

At once, the bright moon dropp’d. 
What fond and wayward thoughts will slide 

Into a lover’s head! 

‘O mercy! ‘ to myself I cried, 

‘If Lucy should be dead! ‘ 
HE dwelt among the untrodden ways 

Beside the springs of Dove, 

A Maid whom there were none to praise 

And very few to love: 
A violet by a mossy stone 

Half hidden from the eye! 

Fair as a star, when only one 

Is shining in the sky. 
She lived unknown, and few could know 

When Lucy ceased to be; 

But she is in her grave, and oh, 

The difference to me! 
TRAVELL’D among unknown men, 

In lands beyond the sea; 

Nor, England! did I know till then 

What love I bore to thee. 
‘Tis past, that melancholy dream! 

Nor will I quit thy shore 

A second time; for still I seem 

To love thee more and more. 
Among the mountains did I feel 

The joy of my desire; 

And she I cherish’d turn’d her wheel 

Beside an English fire. 
Thy mornings show’d, thy nights conceal’d, 

The bowers where Lucy play’d; 

And thine too is the last green field 

That Lucy’s eyes survey’d. 
HREE years she grew in sun and shower; 

Then Nature said, ‘A lovelier flower 

On earth was never sown; 

This child I to myself will take; 

She shall be mine, and I will make 

A lady of my own. 
‘Myself will to my darling be 

Both law and impulse; and with me 

The girl, in rock and plain, 

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 

Shall feel an overseeing power 

To kindle or restrain. 
‘She shall be sportive as the fawn 

That wild with glee across the lawn 

Or up the mountain springs; 

And hers shall be the breathing balm, 

And hers the silence and the calm 

Of mute insensate things. 
‘The floating clouds their state shall lend 

To her; for her the willow bend; 

Nor shall she fail to see 

Even in the motions of the storm 

Grace that shall mould the maiden’s form 

By silent sympathy. 
‘The stars of midnight shall be dear 

To her; and she shall lean her ear 

In many a secret place 

Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 

And beauty born of murmuring sound 

Shall pass into her face. 
‘And vital feelings of delight 

Shall rear her form to stately height, 

Her virgin bosom swell; 

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 

While she and I together live 

Here in this happy dell.’ 
Thus Nature spake – The work was done – 

How soon my Lucy’s race was run! 

She died, and left to me 

This heath, this calm and quiet scene; 

The memory of what has been, 

And never more will be. 
SLUMBER did my spirit seal; 

I had no human fears: 

She seem’d a thing that could not feel 

The touch of earthly years. 
No motion has she now, no force; 

She neither hears nor sees; 

Roll’d round in earth’s diurnal course, 

With rocks, and stones, and trees.

Pride And Fury -Mahmoud Darwish

O Homeland! O Eagle, 

Plunging, through the bars of my cell, 

Your fiery beak in my eyes! 

All I possess in the presence of death 

Is pride and fury. 

I have willed that my heart be planted as a tree, 

That my forehead become an abode for skylarks. 

O eagle, 

I am unworthy of your lofty wing, 

I prefer a crown of flame. 

O homeland! 

We were born and raised in your wound, 

And ate the fruit of your trees, 

To witness the birth of your daybreak. 

O eagle unjustly languishing in chains, 

O legendary death which once was sought, 

Your fiery beak is still plunged in my eye.