|
Abellatif Laâbi
from 'Fragments of a Forgotten Genesis'
Fragment 5
In the beginning was the cry
already joined by dissent
A survivor was needed
from another era
from another universe
one without ties to this debacle
A wise listener was needed
one filled with the cry before saying:
The cry is not heard
it is before hearing
The cry is not of this world
where sight
is still only a hypothesis
We cannot sniff it out
The cry is latent
a premonition
Of its plea
it knows only necessity
Of its longevity
it knows only longevity
The cry is the other light
and above all its movement
Nothing taught it
nothing will teach it
Speech curtails it
when it does not disguise it
Dawn is its abode
night its territory
Revolutions cover it a little
so little
In the middle of disaster
it holds its breath
The cry has some decency
It is sense
that matures in terror
The message that self-destructs
Art that does not question
The unfortunate truth
The weapon of kindness
The cry is not of this world
and it is not of his
It is an obscure paradox
of betrayed loves
and noisy death
The cry sees
and can do nothing
It does not go so far as to listen to itself
to admire itself
The cry is a widower from birth
It fears silence
yet delights in it
In the beginning
it was
it is now
only the imperceptible echo of a vague rumor
Will it succeed?
Fragment 6
This began the season of waiting
hard
long season
burning winter allied against germination
fevers’ inventive delirium
New wrinkles
Waiting with airs of mourning
its radiant sadness
Solemn waiting
between empty action
and empty reason
Sole power below the heavens
What is born waits
and what dies waits
Hope and despair
create illusions
There is only waiting
and its enigma
Questions devour questions
What remains
a capsicum bird under the uvula
small stones reveal the curse’s sign
what we spear again and again
to kill time
Waiting
a shroud embroidered since childhood
Stolen
at the hour of agony
Little by little
expectation extinguished the spirit of rebellion
nothing resembles a single minute of waiting
but another minute of waiting
Consummate boredom
ridiculous in its inconsistence
suspended on the brink of nausea
Hard
long season
where we barely imagine
a fading circle of fire
a farandole of extinguished stars
a theater of shadows
where the requisitioned actors
wander without faith or grace
fumbling through a half-forgotten text
something of this genre:
Glory unto thee oh waiting hangman
supreme judge of destitution
lover-rapist of harshness
Free to you to depict misery
by the wretched
and to pull the chain of
the dog of mercy
you are...
you are not...
you are...
you are not...
Glory unto thee
oh acrobat-in-chief
And waiting puffs itself up
spreads its soporific wings
and cuts the half light
before releasing its droppings
on the vast prison of the soul
and its prostrate multitude
Hard
long season
offers its viscous wall
where we are unable to drive a nail
to hang some amulets
or bang our heads
Waiting
more
high suffering
less
dignity
And the most painful
—we will know this
is that which doesn’t kill us
Copyright © Abdellatif Laâbi
Translation copyright © Gordon Hadfield
| 
