Issa
Makhlouf reads his poem We travel here.
PARTIMOS
Partimos para distanciarnos del lugar que nos crió y para ver el otro lado de la aurora.
Viajamos buscando la fuente de nuestro nacimiento, igual que otros improbables. Partimos para completar el alfabeto, para cargar nuestro adiós de promesas, para viajar tan lejos como el horizonte anulando nuestro destino y esparciendo las páginas al viento, antes de dejar escapar, o tal vez no, nuestra historia en otros libros.
Partimos
hacia destinos no escritos para decir a aquellos que hemos conocido
que retornaremos para establecer relaciones otra vez. Partimos para
aprender el lenguaje de los árboles que no viajan, para escuchar el
tintineo de campanas en los sacros valles, en busca de dioses más
piadosos para arrancar a los extranjeros la máscara del exilio, para
susurrar a los transeúntes que, como ellos nosotros también estamos
atravesando, y que nuestra historia es efímera, tanto en la memoria
como en el olvido, lejos de madres que encienden las velas de la
ausencia y acortan el lapso del tiempo cada vez que elevan sus manos
al cielo.
Partimos
para no ver a nuestros padres envejecer, para no notar los trazos del
tiempo en sus rostros. Partimos para anunciar a aquellos que amamos
que aun los amamos, que la distancia no puede asombrarnos y que el
exilio puede ser tan dulce y fresco como la patria. Partimos para que
al regresar un día, reconozcamos que estaremos exilados donde quiera
que estemos. Partimos para borrar la diferencia entre aire y aire,
agua y agua, cielo e infierno. Nada nos importa el tiempo,
contemplamos la inmensidad, vemos olas saltando como niños, mientras
el mar refluye entre dos barcos, uno que parte y el otro hecho de
papel en manos de un niño.
Partimos
como un payaso que viaja de poblado en poblado, dirigiendo sus
animales que enseñan a los niños su primera lección de tedio.
Partimos para engañar a la muerte que nos persigue de lugar en
lugar. Continuaremos así hasta que estemos perdidos, para que donde
quiera que vayamos nunca más nos encontremos a nosotros mismos y que
así de esta forma nadie pueda encontrarnos.
WE TRAVEL
We
travel towards unwritten destinies. We travel to tell those we have
met that we shall return and meet again. We travel to learn the
language of trees that never travel; to burnish the ringing of bells
resounding in holy valleys; in search of more merciful gods; to strip
the faces of strangers off the masks of estrangement; to confide to
passers-by that we are passers-by, too, and our stay in memory and
oblivion is temporary. We travel far away from mothers who light the
candle of absence and thin the crust of time whenever they raise
their hands to heaven.
We
travel so we do not see our parents grow old; so we do not read their
days on their faces. We travel taking ages unawares; they are wasted
in advance. We travel to tell those we love that we still love them;
distance cannot overpower our amazement; that exile is as sweet and
fresh as our homeland. We travel so that if we returned to our
homeland we would feel like immigrants everywhere. Thus, suddenly, we
shake off our wings idle porches open unto the sun and onto the sea.
We travel until no difference remains between air and air, water and
water, heaven and hell. We mock time. We sit and look into the
expanding space, watch the waves jump together like children. The sea
in front of us leaves between two ships; one of them departs; the
other a paper boat in the hand of a child.
We
travel like the clown who moves from village to village with his
animals that teach children their first lesson in boredom. We travel
to trick death, letting it trail us from place to place. We continue
to travel until we can no longer find ourselves in the places we
travel to; until we are lost and nobody can find us anymore.
From his website.
Issa
Makhlouf (Lebanon, 1955) is a writer and poet living in Paris. He
holds a Doctorate in Cultural and Social Anthropology from the
Sorbonne University. Thus, Makhlouf resides on the crossroads of
varied cultures.
He
was special adviser for social and cultural affairs at the UN, New
York (the sixty-first session of the General Assembly, 2006-2007).
At
present, he is the News Director of the Radio Orient News Division in
Paris.
He
translated into Arabic many literary texts from both French and
Spanish. Among his writings are “A Star Slowed Down in Front of
Death”, “Levantine Dreams/ Borges in the Labyrinths of A Thousand
and One Nights”, “The Apple of Paradise/ Wonderings on
Contemporary Culture”, and others.
Some
of his books and literary texts have been translated into French,
English, Spanish, German, and Japanese.
We travel towards unwritten destinies. We travel to tell those we have met that we shall return and meet again. We travel to learn the language of trees that never travel; to burnish the ringing of bells resounding in holy valleys; in search of more merciful gods; to strip the faces of strangers off the masks of estrangement; to confide to passers-by that we are passers-by, too, and our stay in memory and oblivion is temporary. We travel far away from mothers who light the candle of absence and thin the crust of time whenever they raise their hands to heaven.
We travel so we do not see our parents grow old; so we do not read their days on their faces. We travel taking ages unawares; they are wasted in advance. We travel to tell those we love that we still love them; distance cannot overpower our amazement; that exile is as sweet and fresh as our homeland. We travel so that if we returned to our homeland we would feel like immigrants everywhere. Thus, suddenly, we shake off our wings idle porches open unto the sun and onto the sea. We travel until no difference remains between air and air, water and water, heaven and hell. We mock time. We sit and look into the expanding space, watch the waves jump together like children. The sea in front of us leaves between two ships; one of them departs; the other a paper boat in the hand of a child.
We travel like the clown who moves from village to village with his animals that teach children their first lesson in boredom. We travel to trick death, letting it trail us from place to place. We continue to travel until we can no longer find ourselves in the places we travel to; until we are lost and nobody can find us anymore.
From his website.
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