this poem is not mine, I
did not wrote it, it is by
Nizar Qabbani... The
Fortune Teller
She sat down with fear
in her eyes,
Contemplating my
upturned cup.
She said: don’t grieve,
my son,
You are destined to fall
in love;
My son, the one who
sacrifices himself for his
beloved
Is a martyr.
Your cup is horrific
world,
And your life books and
wars.
You will fall in love so
many times, so many
times,
And you will die so
many times, so many
times.
You will fall in love with
all the women in this
world,
And you will return back
as a defeated king.
For so long I have
scrutinized fortune-
telling,
But never have I read a
cup similar to yours.
For so long I have
scrutinized fortune-
telling
But never have I seen
sorrows similar to yours.
You are predestined to
sail forever
Sail-less, on the sea of
love.
Your life is forever
destined
To be a book of tears,
And be imprisoned
Between water and fire.
Regardless of its fires
Regardless of its past
records
Regardless of the grief
that abides within us
day and night
Regardless of the wind,
The rainy weather,
And the cyclone,
It is love, my son,
Will always be the best
of all fates
There is a woman in
your life, my son,
Her eyes are so
beautiful,
Glory be to God,
Her mouth is drawn like
a petal,
And her laughs
Roses and melodies,
And the mad gypsy’s
hair
Traveling all around the
world.
The woman you love,
May be she is your
whole world.
But your sky is raining,
And your rout is blocked,
blocked, my son.
Your beloved, my son, is
asleep
In a guarded palace.
The palace is big and
huge,
Guarded by dogs and
soldiers,
And the princess of your
heart is asleep.
He who asks for her
hand
Or approaches her
garden’s wall
Will get lost....
He who tries to loosen
her tresses
Will get lost, my son, will
get lost.
You will seek her
everywhere, my son,
Asking the waves of the
sea about her,
Asking the shores’
turquoise.
You will roam seas and
seas,
And your tears will flow
like a river,
And you grief will grow
till it becomes trees.
At the close of your life,
You will realize that
You have been pursuing
only a trace of smoke.
You will find that since
your beloved,
Has no land, no home,
and no address.
How difficult it is, my
son,
To love a woman
Who has neither land,
nor home