The refugee tells

The refugee absorbed in telling his tale

feels no burning, when the cigarette stings his fingers.

He’s absorbed in the awe of being Here

after all those Theres: the stations, and the ports,

the search parties, the forged papers…

He dangles from the chain of circumstance –

his destiny wound like fibre,

in rings as narrow as

those countries on whose chest

the nightmares have piled up.

The smugglers, the mafias, if you asked me,

might not be as bad as that sky of hungry seagulls

above a damaged ship in Nowhere.

If you asked me I would say:

Eternal waiting in immigration offices,

and faces that do not smile back, no matter how much you smile;

who said it was the dearest gift?

If you asked me, I would say: People, everywhere.

I would say: Everywhere,

stones.

He tells and he tells and he tells,

because he has arrived but does not taste arrival,

and he feels nothing when the cigarette burns his fingers.

Sargon Boulus (1944-2007)

Translated from the Arabic by Youssef Rakha

A REFUGEE TALKING A refugee absorbed in talking Did not feel the cigarette burn his fingers Surprised to be here After being there – stations, harbours, Visitations, forged papers Depending on a chain of details His future was fibre-like Laid out in small circles An oppressive country Afflicted by nightmares Smugglers, emigration bandits, if you asked me Commonplace people maybe, hungry sea-gulls Over a wrecked ship in the middle of nowhere If you asked me, I would say: Endless waiting in immigration bureaus Faces that do not return smiles whatever you do Who said: the most precious gift If you asked me, I would say: Human beings are everywhere. You would say: Everywhere Stones He talks, talks, talks He had arrived but did not enjoy the taste of arrival And did not feel the cigarette burn his fingers

© 2007, Sargon Boulus Publisher: First published on PIW, Rotterdam, 2007

© Translation: 2007, Kees Nijland Publisher: Poetry International Festival, Rotterdam, 2007