Traveller Without Baggage Poem by Abd al Wahhab Al-Bayati

From nowhere,
With no face, no history, from nowhere,
Beneath the sky, and in the moaning of the wind,
I hear calling me- ''come''
Across the hills.
The swamp of history crossed by men
As many as the grains of sand.
The earth remains, and men too remain,
The plaything of shadows.
The swamp of history, the sad land,
And the men,
Across the hills.
There passed over perhaps thousands of nights,
While in vain I heard her call in the wind-''come!''
Across the hills.
I, and thousands of years of years,
Yawning, sad, bored,
From nowhere,
Beneath the sky,
Within me my soul dying with no hope,
While I and thousands of years
Are yawning, sad, bored.
I shall be, but in vain!
I shall remain from nowhere,
With no face, no history, from nowhere.
Light and the tumult of the city strike me from afar.
The same boredom.
I walk on, caring for nothing.
Thousands of years, and nothing waiting for the traveller
Save his sad present,
Mud and clay,
Thousands of years,
And the eyes of thousands of locusts.
The walls of the city appear, but for what gain shall I hope,
From a world which still lives with a hateful past
Without a sound of protest?
Which lives on the carrion with perfumed brows?
The same life,
The same life,
A new boredom stronger than stubborn death repaves its road,
Beneath the sky
With no hope.
Within me my soul dying
Like the spider,
My soul dying.
On the wall
The light of day.
This day was never meant for me.
The door was shut, this day was never meant for me.
I shall be, but in vain!
I shall remain from nowhere,
With no face, no history, from nowhere.