To a Young PoetBY MAHMOUD DARWISHTRANSLATED BY FADY JOUDAH

Dont believe our outlines, forget themand begin from your own words.As if you are the first to write poetryor the last poet.

If you read our work, let it not be an extension of our airs,but to correct our errsin the book of agony.

Dont ask anyone: Who am I?You know who your mother is.As for your father, be your own.

Truth is white, write over itwith a crows ink.Truth is black, write over itwith a mirages light.

If you want to duel with a falconsoar with the falcon.

If you fall in love with a woman,be the one, not she,who desires his end.

Life is less alive than we think but we dont thinkof the matter too much lest we hurt emotions health.

If you ponder a rose for too longyou wont budge in a storm.

You are like me, but my abyss is clear.And you have roads whose secrets never end.They descend and ascend, descend and ascend.

You might call the end of youththe maturity of talentor wisdom. No doubt, it is wisdom,the wisdom of a cool non-lyric.

One thousand birds in the handdont equal one bird that wears a tree.

A poem in a difficult timeis beautiful flowers in a cemetery.

Example is not easy to attainso be yourself and other than yourselfbehind the borders of echo.

Ardor has an expiration date with extended range.So fill up with fervor for your hearts sake,follow it before you reach your path.

Dont tell the beloved, you are Iand I am you, saythe opposite of that: we are two guestsof an excess, fugitive cloud.

Deviate, with all your might, deviate from the rule.

Dont place two stars in one utteranceand place the marginal next to the essentialto complete the rising rapture.

Dont believe the accuracy of our instructions.Believe only the caravans trace.

A moral is as a bullet in its poets hearta deadly wisdom.Be strong as a bull when youre angryweak as an almond blossomwhen you love, and nothing, nothingwhen you serenade yourself in a closed room.

The road is long like an ancient poets night:plains and hills, rivers and valleys.Walk according to your dreams measure: either a lilyfollows you or the gallows.

Your tasks are not what worry me about you.I worry about you from those who danceover their childrens graves,and from the hidden camerasin the singers navels.

You wont disappoint me,if you distance yourself from others, and from me.What doesnt resemble me is more beautiful.

From now on, your only guardian is a neglected future.

Dont think, when you melt in sorrowlike candle tears, of who will see youor follow your intuitions light.Think of yourself: is this all of myself?

The poem is always incomplete, the butterflies make it whole.

No advice in love. Its experience.No advice in poetry. Its talent.

And last but not least, Salaam.