Classic Poem

Between the ghetto's slumber,
the silence of its old folks
and curiosity of tourists,
the children grew up.
Poverty has ample place for the poor.
The women remained pregnant,
gave birth and remained pregnant,
kids grew up lazy and devilish,
became their own hungry homeland,
its price dipped in blood.
For the poor die twice, defending two countries:
poverty and their masters' land,
The poor are crowds marching unguided
behind poverty and their masters' lies.

In the Arab ghetto
faces tightened,
harsh voices rose like knives
over the corrupt cities.
In the Arab ghetto
rivers of blood poured
from unlocked doors.
When cruel dreams coupled
with cruel bread,
the “War of Liberation” meant
lives seared with pain,
and the poor became the fence.
They broke the silence of their cells
carried secret weapons
dug up their wrath
discovered their dignity
and rushed forth naked into the world.
Indifferent to destruction,
they colored the earth with their blood.

Later they returned
to discover their blood had turned to words,
garlands for tyrants.

In the Casbah
blood dried over charred staircases,
heaped-up houses that had never seen light
were still stamped with their old poverty
and still unfortunate!
Night threw its mantle again on the Casbah
and found it moaning, trying to catch its breath
while ancient smells of poverty hung in the air.
Lazy men returned to cafes and the love of God,
the unemployed returned to theft,
children returned to smoking and picking
the pockets of strangers,
and the women?
They who had once cut off their braids
and thrown bombs on the enemy
now returned as slaves
or became whores together
with martyrs' wives.
The names of martyrs moved
to the glittering city quarters
and in the houses of the poor,
all names were put out.

The masters said,
“God bless the poor—
They gave us glory on this earth
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”