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Kamal Nasser’s last poem

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  • Kamal Nasser’s last poem

    The famous Palestinian poet, who was killed by Israeli death squad on April 10, 1973

    Beloved, if perchance word of my death reaches you
    As, alone, you fondle my only child
    Eagerly awaiting my return,
    Shed no tears in sorrow for me
    For in my homeland
    Life is degradation and wounds
    And in my eyes the call of danger rings.
    Beloved, if word of my death reaches you
    And the lovers cry out:
    The loyal one has departed, his visage gone forever,
    And fragrance has died within the bosom of the flower
    Shed no on life
    And tell my only one, my loved one,
    The dark recesses of your father's being
    Have been touched by visions of his people.
    Splintered thoughts bestowed his path
    As he witnessed the wounds of oppression.
    In revolt, he set himself a goal
    He became a martyr, sublimated his being
    even changed his prayers
    Deepened their features and improvised
    And in the long struggle his blood flowed
    His lofty vision unfolded shaking even destiny.
    If news reaches you, and friends come to you,
    Their eyes filled with cautious concern
    Smile to them in kindness
    For my death will bring life to all;
    My people's dreams are my shrine
    at which I pray, for which I live.
    The ecstacy of creation warms my being, shouting of joy,
    Filling me with love, as day follows day,
    Enveloping my struggling soul and body.
    Immortalized am I in the hearts of friends
    I live only in others' thoughts and memories.
    Beloved, if word reaches you and you fear for me
    Should you shudder and your cheeks grow pale
    As pale as the face of the moon,
    Allow it not to look upon you, nor
    feast on the beauty of your gaze
    For I am jealous of the light of the moon.
    Tell my only one, for I love him,
    That I have tasted the joy of giving
    And my heart relishes the wounds of sacrifice.
    There is nothing left for him
    Save the sighs from my song...Save the remnants of my lute
    Lying piled and scattered in our house.
    Tell my only one if he ever visits my grave
    And yearns for my memory,
    Tell him one day that I shall return
    --to pick the fruits.