Passport
They didn't know mein the shadows thatabsorbed my colorinto the passportand my wound was for them like an exhibition in a galleryfor a tourist who loves collecting pictures
They didn't know medon't let the palm of your hand under the sunshine (at a woman)because the trees know meeven all the songs of the rain know mebecause the trees know meall the songs of the rain know medon't leave me pale like the moon (to a woman)like the moon..
all the birds who followed the palm of my hand to the doorof the far away airportall the fields of wheatall the prisonsall the white gravesall the bordersall the handkerchiefs that wavedall the eyeseverything was with me but theyhad let it all fallen to be not in the passport!forced to be ashamed of my name and my sense of belongingin the dirt which I had formed with my own hands
Hiob's patience calls into the sky of the new day:don't make an example of me - second, second!*
Gentlemen, gentlemen and prophetsdon't ask the trees what their names are!don't ask the valleys who their mothers are!from my forehead a sword of light comes outand from my hand sprigs the water of the river..
The hearts of all humans are my nationality!so free me of this passport..
*The author of the poem, Mahmoud Darwish, wants to show that the person who describes here his suffer and his patience, doesn't want to be forced to show the same mass of patience as Hiob as an example had to show. Thats the reason why he says 'second'. He doesn't want to be a second Hiob.