on the river-fed high plateau of Beqaa, summer tomatoes
hang like liquid fire in the early morning mist
O the winds
blind-eyed potatoes lie in their rich beds, waiting
for the touch of hands that will set them free
O the winds of war
summer's golden sun stands transfixed and ripe
on slender stalks, offering themselves to the blade
Blow it all away
the mountains, pleased with themselves, have gathered
the whiteness of the clouds to their breasts;
have scraped the sky to childhood blue;
and the blood-red grapes hang heavy on the vine
O the winds of war blow it all away
here is the city of the sun, Heliopolis, raising its cracked
and pitted fingers to the ancient gods of Phoenicia and Rome
O the winds
stone supplications to Venus Bacchus and lord Jupiter
offer forgotten prayers for sun and wine and love
O the winds of war
here the land is still sacred, here the old songs are still sung
only the omnipotent gods have changed
Blow it all away
the farmers, pleased with themselves, have gathered
their fruits, winnowed their grain, sweated under an august sun;
slept and dreamed of bread and wine
and the well-fed silences of little children
O the winds of war blow it all away
O the winds of war blow it all away
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem