Mahmoud Darwish

I remember al-Sayyab,* his futile cries across the Gulf: ‘Iraq, Iraq, nothing but Iraq,’ And nothing answers but an echo. I remember al-Sayyab under these same Sumerian skies Where a woman surmounted the void To make us heirs to earth and exile. I remember al-Sayyab . . . Poetry is born in Iraq, So belong to Iraq – become a poet, my friend! I remember al-Sayyab did not find...

Nestled in his father’s arms, a bird afraid of the hell above him, Mohammad prays: Father, protect me from flying. My wing is weak against the wind, and the light is black.

Mohammad wants to go home, without a bicycle, without a new shirt. He wants his school desk and his book of grammar. Take me home, father, so I can finish my homework and complete my years slowly, slowly on the...