The Father and the Son
The Father and the Son
By Tarif Youssef Agha
I wrote this poem in 2005, in the annual memory of the military coup that brought the Assad Family to power in Syria back in November 1970. It was never published before.
Time passed the Arabs’ Nation
It was infected by scabies
Scabies infected all the ruling palaces every where
And turned the lives of the people into powerlessness and sadness
***
Every single ruler seized power by jumping to the throne
For the sake of the throne, he cut off thousands of necks
If Hulago was alive, he would bend to him (The Mongol conqueror of the 13th century)
With his sword, the blood of the people reached their knees
***
Every single one of them gave his loyalty to the foreigners
Butchered the people and robbed the wealth of the Homeland
In peace-time, he is a thief and an executioner in a clothe of a ruler
In war-time, he is the first one to run away
***
They dragged the forehead of the nation in mud
They surrounded the nation with domes of humiliation and disgrace
Where are they compared to Urabi and Al-Azmah (Heroes who resisted occupation)?
They don’t even test the songs of freedom
***
They are hopeless, just like the return of a dead to the one who is weeping
Just like blowing air in an open Bagpipe (traditional musical instrument)
Where are they compared to Al-Mukhtar and Al-Jazaeree (Heroes who resisted occupation)?
They don’t have any relation what so ever to the family of dignity and courage
***
They took the nation back to the ages of lumberjacking
To the ages of darkness and meaningless fiery speeches
They took it back to the ages of idols-worshiping and humans-worshiping
The ages of the Father, the Son, and those who support them
***
The (Assad Jr.) regime, just as that of the father, is infected with rabies
It brought disaster to the whole country
It was said that when the father is gone, life would become better
The father left, but misery didn’t
***
The regime, just as that of the father, murdered, raped, robbed and lied
It pulled the rug of dignity from under the peoples’ feet
Where ever we go, we are faced with accusing fingers
The country is being pushed closer and closer to the edge of destruction
***
The son, just as his father, has no reason to stay in power
He did never go to war; still he decorates his uniform with medals and ranks
Just as in the French Revolution
Taking care of the necks of such rulers will be the peoples’ duty
***
A Poem translation
(Can be shared without permission)
By Tarif Youssef-Agha
An Expatriate Arab Syrian Writer & Poet
Member of the ‘Syrian Revolutionary Writers Assembly’
Friday November 21, 2014, Houston, Texas
http://sites.google.com/site/tarifspoetry