When I bid her adieu, when I knew I was going, I embraced in her Ṭāriq ibn Ziyād, that Arab hero. If only my lovely granddaughter had a way of knowing, The ones she meant were my ancestors of long, long ago. Her glory! I anointed an open wound festering, And in my heart anointed another that refused to go. She said: Alhambra! Pride of my ancestors glowing, Read on its walls my glories that shine and show.
The decoration of Alhambra I almost hear pulsing, And the ornaments on the roof, I hear their call grow. Behind her like a child I walked, she was guiding, And behind me, history, piles of ashes row after row.
The long earrings on her neck were glittering, Like Christmas Eve candles that sparkle and glow. She came with me and her hair behind her flowing, Like luscious ears of grain in an unharvested meadow. In the perfume of Generalife with waters gleaming, Its Arabian Jasmine, its sweet basil and citron odour. In your Arab face, in your mouth still storing The suns of my country from the days of Arab lore. Damascus, where is it? I said: you will be seeing It in your flowing hair, a river of golden black ore. And the Jasmine inlaid in its stars were shining, With the golden singing pool, a picture of splendour. I saw a room in our old house with a clearing, Where mother used to spread my cushions on the floor. With a Damascene face, through it I was seeing, The eyelids of Sheba and the neck of Sucad once more.
How strange is history, how is it to me returning? A beautiful granddaughter, from my pedigree of yore. And Umayyad, with flags lifted high, flying, Their horses streaming by, unnumbered they pour. Granada! Seven centuries awoke from slumbering, In her eyes, after the clothing of sleep they wore. Are you a Spaniard? I asked her enquiring, She said: Granada is the city where I was bore. Two soft black eyes in perfect frames enticing, Generating after-effects from the past ages afore. At the entrance of Alhambra was our meeting, How sweet is a rendezvous not thought of before.
0 kommentar(er)
