Eleven Planets in the Last Andalusian Sky

On the last evening
we tear our days down from the trellises
tally the ribs we carry away with us
and the ribs we leave behind.

On the last evening
we bid farewell to nothing,
we've no time to finish,
everything's left as it is,
places change dreams the way they
change casts of characters.

Suddenly we can no longer be lighthearted,
this place is about to play host to nothing.

On the last evening,
we contemplate mountains surrounding the clouds,
invasion and counter-invasion,
the ancient era handing our door keys over to a new age.
Enter, O invaders, come, enter our houses
drink the sweet wine of our Andalusian songs!
We are night at midnight
no horseman galloping toward us
from the safety of that last call to prayer
to deliver the dawn.

Our tea is so hot and green--so drink!
Our pistachios are ripe and fresh--so eat!
The beds are green with new cedarwood
--give in to your drowsiness!
After such a long siege, sleep on the
soft down of our dreams!
Fresh sheets, scents at the door, and many mirrors.
Enter our mirrors so we can vacate the premises completely!

Later we'll look up what was recorded in our history
about yours in faraway lands

Then we'll ask ourselves,
"Was Andalusia
here or there? On Earth
or only in poems?"

By Mahmoud Darwish