Adonis Diaries

“My story of eagle and storm”

Posted on: July 30, 2016

Time says: “My story of eagle and storm”; (Apr. 28, 2010)

Waiting for the storm to hit

How could they cope with a storm?

What could they do in the desert?

Where is the storm?

It is on the horizon, hesitating?

A tramp at the hotel entrance.

Old eagle, maybe the last of his species,

Lonely, quiet, waiting for the storm,

A chauffeur waiting for his master.

Old eagle is tired of tasting occasional serene clouds,

An old chef tasting the remains of a banquet.

Queen storm is taking her time in front of the mirror.

Old eagle is ready to chase out the storm up front;

What could an eagle could do with a worn out beak,

Decrepit and turned straight from frequent shattering on rocks.

How could old eagle hurry to meet the storm

A tottering bicycle crossing river bed?

For years, old eagle’s white feathers have been dirty,

Dirtier than an old waiter’s apron.

A gentle breeze nudging old eagle from rock to rock

From plain to plain

A bored old soldier in a camp

Anxious for his last battle, confronting a fly.

A soothing breeze floated over old eagle;

He fluttered, a youth touched by the first girl,

Old eagle heaves a sigh; he is reminiscing youth

Strong wings spanning the valley, glittering with sweat.

Tiny birds, out of breath, trailing valiantly behind,

Mobs running after the King’s horse

Chants hoarse, hallelujah feeble.

Old eagle is back dozing, sun scorching, epoch stretching out.

Suddenly, the universe blackened;

The world is still, but old eagle’s tail is waving.

Old eagle is hopping in circle,

A baby lamb welcoming its mother.

The storm thundered and hastened,

An ice skater showing off.

Old eagle is whispering an old victory song;

An eagle fallen off mountain tops,

A bride with no pendants and no cries.

Old eagle opened his old beak and retreated,

In respect of his old master and teacher.

Old eagle is spinning amid his broken plumes,

His shouts clacking like rifle bullets

A mass of blood, proudly lecturing

On the art of thirsting and ripping apart enemies.

The storm danced around old eagle and sneaked away.

Old eagle is mad; he is jumping cat like,

A scared baby stumbling for the door knob,

A drunkard coming back in the bar

Kicked out a hundred times.

Old eagle is wailing like a baby.

The storm lost steam on the sea shore,

Medals and crowns scattered’

The bludgeoned face of a boxer,

A drunk washing his face.

Mighty storm is aching:

It recollects that a tiny creature fought to death.

Mighty storm is sprawled on the beach:

A monstrous tent shrinking to a headgear,

Tears dropping in eagle’s shape.

Note 1: A liberal translation from a poem by late Syrian poet Mohammad al Maghout

Note 2: Though Mohammad al Maghout published this poem in early 1990, a few thought that it referred to the failed US invasion of Iraq in 2003

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