Isthmus of the Wind
Translated from the Arabic by Salma Harland*
Words were not
The sole
Signifier of loss
For T. S. Eliot,
But Being-in-itself
Where the beginning is the end
—In my beginning is my end,
Traces of old fires,
The perpetual star of hope
In the long journey of the Magi
For a Birth like Death,
Omar Khayyam’s history of the Soul
Which you read as a young man
—In my end is my beginning.
Each step is bound to incompleteness
Without a word:
There is the rub,
The light crossing the distance in-between.
Where is the other voice, then?
The non-voice,
The muse of imagination
In the old lyric:
“April is the cruellest month”,
The rose-red wound
Kindling in a poet’s heart
Like an ancient fire?
A language signifying nothing:
That is the isthmus of the wind.
In the middle of the road
We diverge
To celebrate
New endings.
Now the poem
Is complete
For all it lacks is words.
Salma Harland is an Egyptian-born, UK-based translator. She has an MA in Literature and Philosophy from the University of Sussex, a PGCert in Translation and Interpreting from the American University in Cairo, and a BA in Translation from October 6 University. Her literary translations (from and into Arabic and English) have appeared in ArabLit Quarterly, Turjoman, Romman Magazine, Egyptian Researchers, among others.