khaled Juma
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translation
Little of what Gaza will say soon
 

By: Khaled Juma

Translated by: Maha Reziq

This is my blood. It begins where the song ends, where death enjoys two more children, beyond the ability of politicians to bear the truth.

This is my blood, for those who set the stage to alight the fire in the vessel of the heart. He rubs his hands and sleeps to be protected from seeing the fire at the gate of meaning. The meaning mocks the building, and a language says to its speaker: it is not for this purpose that I was created, a by-passer laughs in a narrow corridor and raises his voice with an old prayer laden with a common mistake; two buildings of shyness collapse around him on a ground which has not drunk the roughness of numbers yet. Then, clouds get afflicted with perplexity, for clouds were not loaded with the desire for raining. Every drop in the cloud was dreaming to be a color in the leaf of a tree. It is a scene that cannot be resembled to see a disheartened cloud and a flute guarding wheat in the place in lieu of a well, two hands and a traditional dress fighting alone.

From the smell of angry bees, a master will rise up. From the reminiscent neighing of heroic tales, he resorts naked to the forests to start the saying from its birth and gives me the title of a city, some ceremonies keep him entertained in a time of my preoccupation in a funeral that does not end. I will say words that will hurt everyone and will promptly finish my rituals to tell those enchanted of their role in the novel as to what they were supposed to do and did not. A long time would have passed and become history when those of lost memory will remember that little of speech used to mean the survival of a song on lips, and the boy who no longer chants, stopped only because he died before telling his mother how much he loved her. Whilst the tragedy of his mother was that he died two songs ahead of her. No one remembers the songs or the family anymore.

Once I am done with the burial of my own hands and the two pulses of my drowning heart in mourning, I will say words that will hurt the viewers. I will say what the modernity of others cannot handle. I will neither let the sleepers feel any regrets, nor will I let the amassed armies on the shelves feel ashamed of their insignias, and I will not blame my guards and I will not thrust my sorrow in their skin, only, will I say words that hurt the viewers so that they will not look and tears will not flood the books. I will forever preserve my children in a fridge of nostalgia. And I do not want anyone to pour water on my wound so I can pray alone without Imam or followers.

What I will say soon, will be told soon. While mesmerized by your screens, beware not to hurt your wives with your apparent anger, things look greater when narrated by machines. So do not believe my dead people or the injured or the widowed or orphans under my arms. Do not believe my collapse or explosion, do not believe my language or my confusion in front of the directions. And pray for yourselves, only yourselves.

This is my blood, yes this is my blood. And soon enough I will say words from blood, so do not mistake the interpretations, because we -the cities- are hurt by those who stop the song, therefore we say the unbearable words.

By Khaled Juma


This is my blood. It starts where the anthem ends, where death enjoys -in its own way- two more children beyond the capacity of politicians to bear the truth.

This is my blood, to those who made space to set fire in the facility/ vicinity of the heart. He clasps his hands to be protected by sleep from seeing the fire at the gate of meaning. The meaning mocks the building, and a language says to its speaker: it is not for this purpose that I was created, a by-passer laughs in a narrow corridor and raises his voice with an old prayer laden with a common mistake; two buildings of shyness collapse around him on a ground which has not drunk the roughness of numbers yet. Then, clouds get afflicted with perplexity, for clouds were not loaded with the desire for raining. Every drop in the cloud was dreaming to be a color in the leaf of a tree. It is a scene that cannot be resembled to see a disheartened cloud and a flute guarding wheat in the place in lieu of a well, two hands and a traditional dress fighting alone.

From the smell of angry bees, a master will rise up. From the reminiscent neighing of heroic tales, he resorts naked to the forests to start the saying from its birth and gives me the title of a city, some ceremonies keep him entertained in a time of my preoccupation in a funeral that does not end. I will say words that will hurt everyone and will promptly finish from my rituals to tell every enchanted of their role in the novel as to what they were supposed to do and did not. A long time would have passed and become history when those of lost memory will remember that little of speech used to mean the survival of a song on lips, and the boy who no longer chants, stopped only because he died before telling his mother how much he loved her. Whilst the tragedy of his mother was that he died two songs ahead of her. No one remembers the songs or the family anymore.

Once I am done with the burial of my own hands and the two pluses of my drowning heart in mourning, I will say words that will hurt the viewers. I will say what the modernity/civilization of others cannot handle. I will neither let the sleepers feel any regrets, no will I let the amassed armies on the shelves feel ashamed of their insignias, and I will not blame my guards and I will not thrust my sorrow in their skin, only, will I say words that hurt the viewers so that they will not look and tears will not flood the books. I will forever preserve my children in a fridge of nostalgia. And I do not want anyone to pour water on my wound so I can pray alone without Imam or followers.

What I will say soon, will be told soon. While mesmerized by your screens, beware not to hurt your wives with your apparent anger, things look greater when narrated by machines/radios. So do not believe my dead people or the injured or the widowed or orphans under my arms. Do not believe my collapse or explosion, do not believe my language or my confusion in front of the directions. And pray for yourselves, only yourselves.

This is my blood, yes this is my blood. And soon enough I will say words from blood, so do not mistake the interpretations, because we -the cities- are hurt by those who stop the anthem, therefore we say the unbearable words.

     
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