Nothing in me left for pain to takeلم يبقَ عندي ما يبتزّه الألم

Muhammad Mahdi al-Jawahiri

لم يبقَ عنديَ ما يبتزّهُ الألمُ

حسبي من الموحشاتِ الهمُّ والهرمُ

لم يبقَ عندي كفاءَ الحادثاتِ أسى

ولا كفاءَ جراحاتٍ تضجُّ دمُ

وحينَ تطغَى على الحرَّان جمرتُهُ

فالصمتُ أفضلُ ما يُطوَى عليهِ فمُ

وصابرينَ على البلوى يراودهُمْ

في أن تضمَّهُمُ أوطانُهم حلمُ

تذكَّروا عهدَ بلفورٍ فقلتُ لهمْ

ما تستجِدُّونَهُ عهدِي بهِ القِدَمُ

مِن قَبلِ سِتِّينَ من خَزيانِ مَولِدِهِ

أقمتُ مأتمَ أرضٍ قُدسُها حَرَمُ

لا يَغضَبَنْ سادةٌ تُخشى معرَّتُهُم

بل المعرَّةُ في أنْ يَغضَبَ الخَدَمُ

فلستُ أخلِطُ ما يَجنيهِ مِنْ تُهَمٍ

شعبٌ برئٌ وما يَأتيهِ مُتَّهَمُ

وإنَّما أنا من أوجاعِ مجتمعٍ ٍ

جرحٌ، ومن جَذوَاتٍ عِندَهُ ضَرَمُ

كم تَنقُضُونَ بأعذارٍ مُثَرثَرَةٍ

ما تُبرِمونَ، ولا يعنيكمُ البَرَمُ

شأنَ الذليلِ وقد دِيست كرامَتُهُ

وقلَّما عِندَهُ أن يَكثُرَ الكَلِمُ

دمشقُ يا أمَّةً حَطَّتْ بها أُممُ

منها إذا نُكَّسَتْ أعلامُها عَلَمُ

كأنَّما هيَ عنْ أوزارِ جِيرَتِها

كفَّارَةٌ، وعنِ الساعِي بِها نَدَمُ

يا هِمَّةً باسمِها تُسْتَنهِضُ الهِمَمُ

يا قِمَّةً تتهاوَى عِندَها القِمَمُ

دمشقُ، إنَّ وجوهَ الغدرِ سافِرَةً

أَخَفُّ مِنها شُروراً وهيَ تَلتَثِمُ

إنَّ النفاقَ حفيرٌ لا تلُوحُ بهِ

خُطَى المنافقِ إلَّا يومَ يَرتَطِمُ

تَأَلَّبَ الشرُّ مسعوراً بهِ نَهَمٌ

إلى العضاضِ، وإن أودَى بهِ النَّهَمُ

ودَوَّخَ الصمتُ مِهذاراً يُدَاخُ بهِ

ودبَّ في السمعِ مِن سَمَّاعةٍ صَمَمُ

وارتدَّ عنكِ وأحلافٌ لهُ خَدَمٌ

مُغْبَرَّ وجهٍ على خَيشُومِهِ رَغَمُ

وكم تَلَوَّحَ وجهٌ مِثلَهُ قذرٌ

ولَّى بأنظفِ كفٍّ منكِ يُلتَطَمُ

وأنتَ يا أسَدَ الغابِ الَّذي حلَفَتْ

بهِ الرجولةُ أنْ تَستَأسِدَ الأُزَمُ

يا أيُّها الجبلُ الرَّاسَي بهِ أَنَفٌ

منَ الرّضوخِ ومِن أن يَنحنِي شَمَمُ

ثَبِّتْ لها قَدَمَاً تَرهبكَ مَذْئَبَةٌ

ما إِن تُوَطَّى لها في غَابةٍ قَدَمُ

يا حافظَ العهدِ أعطَاهُ مَواثِقَهُ

ما عاشَ أنَّ عُراهُ ليسَ تَنفَصِمُ

أَعطتكَ مَوثِقهَا الدنيا وأُسرَتُها

أنَّ المُفاداةَ جيشٌ ليسَ يَنهزِمُ

Nothing remains in me that pain can exploit,

Enough of the desolate companions, worry and old age.

No sorrow remains in me to match the blows of fate,

Nor blood to answer wounds whose cries overflow.

When the burning blaze overwhelms the thirsty,

Silence is the best thing for the mouth to fold upon.

And those patient through hardship are haunted

By the dream that their homeland might embrace them.

They remembered the Balfour pledge, and I told them:

“What you call new, I have long known as old.”

Sixty years before the shame of its birth,

I had already held the funeral of a land whose sanctuary is Jerusalem.

Let no master fear disgrace,

The disgrace is when the servants are the ones enraged.

I will not mingle with the false charges they heap upon

An innocent people with the deeds of the truly guilty.

I am nothing but the wound of a suffering society,

And from its embers, a blaze still burns.

You constantly break what you have agreed upon,

with verbose, empty excuses, caring nothing for what you once bound.

Like the humiliated man whose dignity was trampled,

And for whom speech no longer holds much value.

Damascus, O nation upon whom nations have descended,

From you, when your banners are lowered, another’s flag is raised.

As though you were the atonement for the sins of your neighbors,

And for the plotters against you, regret.

O spirit whose name rouses all spirits,

O summit before which all summits collapse.

Damascus, though the faces of treachery be unmasked,

They are lighter in evil than when they hide behind veils.

Hypocrisy is a pit unseen,

Until the hypocrite stumbles into it.

Evil has gathered, rabid and hungering to bite,

Though its own hunger will be its ruin.

Silence has conquered the babbler,

And in the ear, the listener’s devices bring only deafness.

Allies have turned from you, with servants at their side,

Their faces dusty, their snouts pressed into the dirt.

And how often has a filthy face like theirs been struck

By your cleanest hands.

And you, O lion of the forest,

Whose manhood swore that crises would turn to lions in your shadow,

O steadfast mountain,

Too proud to bow, too lofty to bend,

Plant for her a foot so firm that the she-wolf fears you,

Never daring to set foot in the forest you guard.

O keeper of the covenant, who swore his oaths,

And whose bonds will never be undone so long as he lives.

The world has granted you its guarantees and secrets,

And selfless sacrifice is an army that cannot be defeated.

Muhammad Mahdi al-Jawahiri (1899–1997) was a prominent modern Iraqi poet, considered one of the leading Arab poets of the 20th century. He is known for his political and social poetry, characterized by eloquence and profound emotional depth.