In Memory of Ali Smoody and As'ad Al-Shawwa

whom the Israelis Killed in the Negev

August 16, 1988

The martyrs vie with one another in the Negev prison

as they formulate with their blood the death-life dialectic

and baptise their bodies with the sand

they join the long procession celebrating the spirit

trees they are, planted on the path of martyrdom.

How often did they smite down the thrones of repression!

How often were the invaders foiled from conquering the spirit!

How often did the invaders fail!

The martyrs vie with one another

they overtake the ancient sand on the way to their wedding

they embrace n the procession of musk and henna

constantly they dreamt of the festival of the land

constantly they celebrated the names of the mountains

and they built a fortress for the winds; for the free song they mustered

the formations of those birds which crossed the barrier of death

and gathered on Negev land.

the martyrs did not fall from their heights

no, they ascended up to the ceiling of oneness

and in the dark regained their spirits

with the ink of their blood they wrote their testaments

they greeted the sea

and gathered its shells

they bared their chests before showers of bullets

that they might receive a flood of flames

in the noon sun the singing wrestled with the rattle of gunfire

it stirred up the sand

it granted the stones their magical shapes

and out of the shrapnels of thought

emerged a song which overwhelmed the sand

a song which now faces the firing and the teargas

it renews the covenant which gave to the spilt blood its green color

and it drops out of the modern fighter's calculations

all the formulas of despair

of long-preserved grief and weariness.

Have the martyrs left the warmth of their homes

have they bid their children farewell

have they kissed an olive tree on the mountain slope

or did they leave in the night?

Did the birds of love alight on them

the air spreading about the walls of the spirit?

The Palestinian wedding tastes musk

as the women pour forth their ululations,

the children celebrating as young men in the square

and the horses dancing to the rhythm of the threshing on the rocks

did the dark faces embrace

did the eyes look up to discover the self

did the vanguards of our fiery wedding arrive?

Martyrs have the color of wild thyme and of henna

moons they are soaring in the sky

they are a banner of glory fluttering in the orbit of the heart

giving the Intifadah its popular depth

and etching in the sand the record of its rage

the martyrs vie with one another

and there the bullet which penetrates the chest

bearing good tidings to the Arab generations

the martyrs do not go away

rather their Intifadah will eventually

rescue Palestinian thought from the mud of speechmaking

the martyrs do not go away

rather they have bestowed life on their age

and in the sand of the Negev

they have recorded our ignored history.