Red coral
It may happen that a dolphin
Becomes stranded in the north
Following the sad sound of a horn.
Unaccustomed to land-borne sins
The ancient sea creature
Surrenders to the undertow
Bemusedly watching
A shadow following it
Like a quiet nightmare.
Red coral, bivalve sea scallops
Its sin.
In a basket of apricot blossoms
It collects girls
Who have lost their smiles
At sea.
Stories from the island
Stories from the island.
Ordinary tales
Of shipwrecks,
Or perhaps not.
Rainbow boats
And the young ones
– your own kids –
Safeguarded
In a chest of roses
Spirited away
By the northern winds
Even today.
So many gazes
And hopes
Scattered in the north wind.
Almost next to the shore,
Dolphins
Dancing
Their tears
Impalpable
On Aphrodite’s chariot:
Their ode to life
At the end of the journey
Shed as consolation
For the sorrow of the sea.
Amal, or hope
At the end of the journey
Amal, or hope
Was birthed.
Far away
Is the island of the sun
Its freedom
The gateway to heaven.
It is a dream that appeared
One night
To the tired, old wise men,
Of Carthage
Waiting for a kind of dawn
Oblivious to the light of day;
It is a dream delivered
Like a song of the soul
By the breath of sea angels.
The gods of harmony
Will be there
Waiting for you
– such was the prophecy-
And there will be endless liturgies
Of almond blossoms
And sky-scented shells
To gift the slow processions
With a kiss
Of Birsa’s flashing lights.
Exhausted with sadness
And the ghosts of Atlantis in their eyes.
Amal, or hope
Was born
At the end of the journey,
On a magic carpet
Of corals and starfish,
A witness of peace
At heaven’s gate.
Ebla
In the origin story of the world,
Ebla
Is the wisdom of Magi,
Alchemies of peace
Between opposing stars
On the white city of Ishtar,
Moon of the East
Illuminating with its innocence
The silent lands of Ur.
Yours is
The sorrow of the world
Leading astray
The flight of the grey herons
Suspended
Between hills of hawthorn and gorse
Stained with the blood of the righteous.
Spice trading ships
Now bring only an unforgiving sorrow
No sign of spring.
It is not Phoenician red, nor is it Damascus rose.
The red color of the sea
At the gates of Ebla.
The Tadmor Oasis
Palmyra,
A miracle of pink,
Is in danger.
Heavenly prophecies say so.
The sun of the Nabataeans hidden
Behind a cloud of herring gulls
Lest it see (witness) the foretold carnage
Of jasmines,
Blue flowers of hope.
Zenobia,
His secret love
Wanders in the Elysian Fields
Like an angel saddened
Because it cannot return
And defend
The banks of the Euphrates River.
The desert
Is an unexpected enemy.
Sadness is in the heart
Of a night with no stars
To guide the angels of the East
Toward the oasis of Tadmor.
No one speaks sabir anymore,
Language of harbors and peace.
Khaled, the last memory of Syria*
In one night
Tamil
And the gods of Palmyra
Scattered in the sky
A canvas of clouds and byssus
With the precious colors of Syria.
White as the incense beads
And the holy kyrie liturgy.
Mar Elian was the light.
Green were the mosques of Homs
On the first day of Muharram:
The feast of gifts.
It’s the beginning of the year.
The next one shall be
Beautiful and peaceful:
That was the chant rising
From the gentle soul of the casbah.
Red is the courage of the people of Syria,
In the blinding light of sunset.
In one night
The khamsin,
The desert wind
Covered
With dust and misfortune
The most beautiful
Among the lands of Abraham.
Mar Elian was devastated.
Khaled gave his life
To defend
Syria’s secret heart
Its last memory.
The springs in the oasis
Are only sinful stains
Desperate, shapeless blood.
All in one night.
The sea stars have bloomed
In clusters,
A prayer to heaven
To remember the souls of the righteous.
It’s dawn.
- The poem is dedicated to Khaled Mohamad al-Asaad who was a Syrian archeologist and head of antiquities at the ancient city of Palmyra who was killed by ISIS when he refused to reveal where the archaeological artefacts had been hidden to keep them safe from destruction.
Your mother star
Between the moon and the badlands
Your mother star
Meets infinity.
There is always a boundary
Before reaching
The faraway
Island of Thule,
Your tenderness,
But not here.
Time’s memory
Knows no boundary.
Ancient voices,
Earth angels,
Clouds suspended
In a sky of clay.
The star
That reads hearts
Is an enchanted tale
Between the moon and the badlands,
A sea that has come to the surface again
And bears a silken light.
Poems from Sogni dei bambini siriani, Manni 2018, translated by Pina Piccolo.
Marcello Tagliente is an archeologist and a poet who for many years has engaged in the task of making archeological sites enter into a conversation with contemporary art, literature and issues. In 2018 he published Sogni dei bambini siriani with the prestigious poetry press Manni.
