We believed in what we learned from words.
Poetry was exhaled from the fruit of our nights,
and from herding our goats on their way to pasture.
Dawn was blue, tender and dewy,
and our dreams were modest, the size of our houses:
we see honey in the carobs and gather it.
We dream that the sesame seeds on the terraces
are heaped up, and we swift them.
We see in the dream what we then face at dawn.
The lover's scarf was the dream.
Yet we did not raise our fig tree
so the southern invaders could hang us upon it.
Mahmud Darwish, Unfortunately it was Paradise: Selected Poems, Munir Akash et al. (trad.), Frienses Corporation (Printer), s.d.