With more than each other with--
in England, in Germany many people
ask me, what you like in poetry.
With all of them as my children--
Which poem do you like best, basically.
But please put it here, "A meeting at an air--"
Airport.
"--airport."
It's always insisted that I remember the poem.
He's always said that this is one of his favorite poems.
And in fact, when we were putting together
his first book of poems, we had made a selection.
And I asked him was there anything
we left out that was really important that in some way
spoke for him in an essential way?
He said this-- this poem.
This is-- Eric, I think this is a love poem, but different,
like our other poems are different.
But I insist this is a different one.
سألتني وكنّا من ضحى النبع مرة عائدين
ماذا تكره ومن تحب؟
أجبتك من خلف أهداب الفجاءة ودمي يسرع يسرع
كظل سحابة الزرزور
أكره الرحيل أحب النبع والدرب
وأعبد الضحى فضحكتِ
فأزهر لوز وشدت في الأيك أسراب العنادل
سؤال عمره الآن عقود أربعة
يا للجواب من السؤال
وسؤال عمره عمر رحيلك
يا للسؤال من الجواب
واليوم يا للمحال!
ها نحن في مطار محايد
على شفا صدفة نلتقي
ويحي نلتقي
وها أنت تعيدين السؤال
يا للمحال من المحال
عرفتك ولم تعرفيني
أهذا أنت؟ ولم تصدقي
وفجأة انفجرت تسألين
إن كنت أنت أنت فمن تكره ومن تحب؟
فأجبتك ودمي يغادر الشرفة
يسرع ويسرع كسحابة الزرور
أكره الرحيل أحب النبع والدرب وأعبد الضحى
فبكيتِ فأطرقت ورود
وتعثرت بحرير حرقتها حمائم
Can people still hear in the back?
Is it so-so?
It's OK?
Yeah, OK.
"Meeting in an airport."
You asked me once on our way back
from the mid-morning trip to the spring: "What do you hate,
and who do you love?"
And I answered from behind the eyelashes of my surprise,
my blood rushing like the shadow cast by a cloud of starlings:
"I hate departure...
I love this spring and the path to the spring,
and I worship the middle hours of morning."
And you laughed...
In the almond tree blossomed and the thicket
grew loud with nightingales.
...
A question now four decades old: I salute that
question's answer; and an answer is old is your departure;
I salute that answer's question...
And today, it's preposterous, here we
are at a friendly airport by the slimmest of chances,
and we meet.
Ah, Lord!
we meet.
And here you are asking--
again, it's absolutely preposterous--
I recognized you but you didn't recognize me.
"Is it you?!"
But you wouldn't believe it.
And suddenly you burst out and asked: "If you're really you,
what do you hate and who do you love?!"
And I answered-- my blood fleeing the hall,
rushing in me like the shadow cast by a cloud of starlings:
"I hate departure, and I love this spring,
and the past spring, and I worship
the middle hours of morning."
And you wept, and flowers bowed their heads,
and doves in the silk of their sorrow stumbled.