I will now, in fact, read a couple of translations.
These are from the sequence called "Words"
by the French-Lebanese or Lebanese-French poet
Venus Khoury-Ghata, who is always
thinking about her two languages-- her two
alphabets, although, French is the language in which she has
chosen to write her own work-- many books of poems
and many novels.
And she herself is also a translator from Arabic
into French.
And so this is the three poems from a sequence called "Words."
In those days, I know now, words declaimed the wind.
Besides pebbles, there were moons but no lamps.
The stars would emerge later from a brawl
between two flintstones.
I'll tell you everything.
There were five pebbles, one for each continent.
Big enough to contain a child of a different color.
So there were five children, but no houses.
Windows but no walls.
Wind but no streets.
The first man wore a stone around his neck.
He made an arrangement with the first tree--
an oak, if I remember correctly.
The one who got there first, could drink up the ocean.
Language at that time was a straight line
reserved for birds.
The letter I was the cleft of a female hummingbird.
H-- a letter with one rung necessary to replace a charred
sun before nightfall.
O-- a hole in the sole of the mirror.
Unlike the consonants with their rough garments,
the vowels were naked.
All the weaver's art consisted of humoring them.
In the evening, they counted each other
to make sure no one was missing.
In the rocky countries, men slept without dreaming.