Funerals — To the Spirit of Fouad Suleiman

The people's joy is no joy of mine,
nor were their cares ever like my care.
I pass the nights singing rhymes,
pouring the melody from the cup of my sickness.
I withdraw to be with those of my brothers who have died,
of whom nothing was laid in earth but a few bones.

For I have a brother, a poet, whom death has bitten
and made fragrant in a vast sea of giving;
and I have, out there, a young sister
whom I lost in the deaf darkness.
O time — whenever I call it to mind,
a longing saws at the heart and draws blood.

My breast is filled to the brim with those funerals
and with glooms, until my body has bent beneath the load.
Tomorrow, I say, will bring happiness to life —
but tomorrow is nothing but grief upon grief.
With the night I fold away one disease, and then
a new disease begins, coming with the morning.