Nizar Qabbani Quotes

In the summer I stretch out on the shore And think of you. Had I told the sea What I felt for you, It would have left its shores, Its shells, Its fish, And followed me.

My lover asks me: “What is the difference between me and the sky?” The difference, my love, Is that when you laugh, I forget about the sky

Our shouting is louder than our actions, Our swords are taller than us, This is our tragedy. In short We wear the cape of civilisation But our souls live in the stone age

Because my love for you is beyond words, I decided to shut up.

Give me a daughter with your stubborn heart, or your even temper. Give our children your dark-bright eyes, or your enchanted smile. So that even when we are gone, the world will find within them all of the reasons why I loved you

The most dangerous heart disease: strong memory

Don’t love deeply, till you make sure that the other part loves you with the same depth, because the depth of your love today, is the depth of your wound tomorrow.

Had I told the sea What I felt for you, It would have left its shores, Its shells, Its fish, And followed me.

never believe a man can change a woman those men are pretenders who think that they created women from one of their ribs

The female doesn’t want a rich man or a handsome man or even a poet, she wants a man who understands her eyes if she gets sad, and points to his chest and say : 'Here is your home country.

Light is more important than the lantern, The poem more important than the notebook

And I fear that my place gets taken by some other one, very lucky and not too shy, who flirts with your eyes while I’m the one who’s crazy about them.

keep silent . . the most beautiful voice , is the talk of your hand on the table. قليل من الصمت . . ياجاهلة فأجمل من كل هذا الحديث حديث يديك على الطاولة

Days will pass, and you’ll abandon things you were addicted to, and leave someone, and cancel a dream, and finally, accept a reality.

Life doesn't stop after losing someone, but it goes on without them differently.

We are a thick skinned people with emtpy souls. We spend our days playing dice, chess, or sleeping - and we say we are the best people that ever came to mankind?

أرقى النفوس هي التي تجرعت الألم فتجنبت أن تذيق الآخرين مرارته - The finest souls are those who gulped pain and avoided making others taste it.

Oh Jerusalem, the city of sorrow A big tear wandering in the eye Who will halt the aggression? On you, the pearl of religions? Who will wash your bloody walls? Who will safeguard the Bible? Who will rescue the Quran? Who will save Christ, From those who have killed Christ? Who will save man? يا قدسُ، يا مدينةَ الأحزان يا دمعةً كبيرةً تجولُ في الأجفان من يوقفُ العدوان؟ عليكِ، يا لؤلؤةَ الأديان من يغسل الدماءَ عن حجارةِ الجدران؟ من ينقذُ الإنجيل؟ من ينقذُ القرآن؟ من ينقذُ المسيحَ ممن قتلوا المسيح؟ من ينقذُ الإنسان؟

When a man is in love how can he use old words? Should a woman desiring her lover lie down with grammarians and linguists? I said nothing to the woman I loved but gathered love's adjectives into a suitcase and fled from all languages.

I hadn't told them about you, But they saw you bathing in my eyes. I hadn't told them about you, But they saw you in my written words. The perfume of love cannot be concealed.

Your love taught me to grieve and I have been needing, for centuries a woman to make me grieve for a woman, to cry upon her arms like a sparrow for a woman to gather my pieces like shards of broken crystal

أدمنت احزاني فصرت اخاف ان لا احزنا I got addicted to my sorrows, Until I have gotten scared of not being sorrowed. وطعنت آلافا من المرات حتى صار يوجعني بان لا اطعنا And I was stabbed thousands of times, Until it felt painful not to be stabbed. ولعنت في كل اللغات حتى صار يقلقني بان لا العنا And I was cursed in all the languages, Until I started being nervous of not being cursed. ولقد تشابهت كل البلاد فلا ارى نفسي هناك، ولا ارى نفسي هنا And all the countries seemed the same, That I don't see myself there, And I don't see myself here.

All words In the dictionaries, letters, and novels Died. I want to discover A way to love you Without words.

وكيفَ أمحوكِ مِن أوراقِ ذاكِرتي؟ وأنتِ في القلبِ مثلُ النقـشِ في الحجرِ أنا أحِبُّـكِ .. يا مَـنْ تسكُنينَ دَمي إنْ كُنتِ في الصّينِ أو إنْ كُنتِ في القَمَر

When I wiped you from the book of memory, I did not know I was striking out half my life

Some are like the Moon, good looking, but only when they're away from you.

And I Decided (From Arabic) And I decided to go Round the world on freedom's bicycle By ways illegal As the travels of wind. When asked for my address I give the address of all sidewalks I chose as permanent residence. When asked for my papers, I show them your eyes And am allowed to pass For they know that travel in the cities of your eyes, my dear, Is the right of all world citizens. وقررت نزار قباني وقررت أن أطوفَ العالمَ على درّاجة الحرِّية.. وبنفسِ الطريقةِ غيرِ الشرعيِّة التي تستعملها الريح عندما تسافر.. وإذا سأَلوني عن عُنواني أعطيتُهم عنوانَ كلِّ الأرصِفة التي اخترتها مكاناً دائماً لإقامتي. وإذا سألوني عن أوراقي أريتُهُم عينيكِ، يا حبيبتي.. فَتَرَكوني أمرّ.. لأنهم يعرفونَ أنَّ السفر في مدائن عينيكِ.. من حق جميع المواطينَ في العالم

O Sultan, my master, if my clothes are ripped and torn it is because your dogs with claws are allowed to tear me.

I gave you my whole when I could only give the quarter. And you kept your half from me when you could give your double.

Woman does not emerge from a man’s rib, not ever, it’s he who emerges from her womb.

kill him, then hug him Men are more faithful when dead

During times of war. I want to say: I only love you, And I cling you, Like the peel clings to a pomegranate, Like the tear clings to the eye, Like the knife clings to the wound.

Not everything in the heart can be said, so god created sighs, tears, long sleep, cold smile and shivering hands.

أنا لا أسكن في أي مكان إن عنواني هو اللامنتظر .. مبحرا كالسمك الوحشي في هذا المدى في دمي نار وفي عيني شرر..! ذاهبا أبحث عن حرية الريح التي يتقنها كل الغجر .. راكضا خلف غمام أخضر شاربا بالعين آلاف الصور ذاهبا حتى نهايات السفر ..!

Don't love deeply, till you make sure that the other part loves you with the same depth, because the depth of your love today, is the depth of your wound tomorrow.

Your departure is not a tragedy: I am like a willow tree That always dies While standing.

A tragedy when a mature mind and a romantic heart are in the same body

I throw my passport in the sea, And name you my country I throw all of my dictionaries in the fire, and name you my language

He who fights the destinies to stay with you, He who finds his life better beside you, and clings to you despite of all the events, He who hates your sadness, and tires himself to put a smile on your face, He who cries when you’re away before smiling when you’re here, But God didn’t decide that you’d stay with them despite of all this strugle, Is the only one who deserves immortality in your memory.

We killed you and it was not new for us, we killed the companions of the Prophet and the friends of God. O how many Messengers did we slay? O how many imams? We killed you and you prayed the night prayer, as all of our days are struggle - and all of our days are Karbala.

Every time I kiss you After a long separation I feel I am putting a hurried love letter In a red mailbox.

This is my last letter There will be no others. This is the last grey cloud That will rain on you, After this, you will never again Know the rain. This is the last drop of wine in my cup There will be no more drunkenness. This is the last letter of madness, The last letter of childhood. After me you will no longer know The purity of youth The beauty of madness. I have loved you Like a child running from school Hiding birds and poems In his pockets. With you I was a child of Hallucinations, Distractions, Contradictions, I was a child of poetry and nervous writing. As for you, You were a woman of Eastern ways Waiting for her fate to appear In the lines of the coffee cups. How miserable you are, my lady, After today You won't be in the blue notebooks, In the pages of the letters, In the cry of the candles, In the mailman's bag. You won't be Inside the children's sweets In the colored kites. You won't be in the pain of the letters In the pain of the poems. You have exiled yourself From the gardens of my childhood You are no longer poetry.

Our shouting is louder than our actions, Our swords are taller than us, This is our tragedy.

My Master... Say all you wish of me. It does not matter to me:Shallow.. Stupid.. Crazy.. Simple minded. It does not concern me anymore. For whoever writes about her concerns. in the logic of Men is called a stupid woman. and didn't I tell you in the beginning that I am a stupid woman?

Jerusalem! My Love,My Town I wept until my tears were dry I prayed until the candles flickered I knelt until the floor creaked I asked about Mohammed and Christ Oh Jerusalem, the fragrance of prophets The shortest path between earth and sky Oh Jerusalem, the citadel of laws A beautiful child with fingers charred and downcast eyes You are the shady oasis passed by the Prophet Your streets are melancholy Your minarets are mourning You, the young maiden dressed in black Who rings the bells at the Nativity Church, On sunday morning? Who brings toys for the children On Christmas eve? Oh Jerusalem, the city of sorrow A big tear wandering in the eye Who will halt the aggression On you, the pearl of religions? Who will wash your bloody walls? Who will safeguard the Bible? Who will rescue the Quran? Who will save Christ, From those who have killed Christ? Who will save man? Oh Jerusalem my town Oh Jerusalem my love Tomorrow the lemon trees will blossom And the olive trees will rejoice Your eyes will dance The migrant pigeons will return To your sacred roofs And your children will play again And fathers and sons will meet On your rosy hills My town The town of peace and olives

In the end, forgetting is nothing but turning a page in the book of life. It may seem an easy matter, but as long as you can’t tear it, you will keep on stumbling upon it between each season of your life.

Arab children, Corn ears of the future, You will break our chains, Kill the opium in our heads, Kill the illusions. Arab children, Don't read about our suffocated generation, We are a hopeless case. We are as worthless as a water-melon rind. Dont read about us, Dont ape us, Dont accept us, Dont accept our ideas, We are a nation of crooks and jugglers. Arab children, Spring rain, Corn ears of the future, You are the generation That will overcome defeat.

در یک روز، یا یک بعدازظهر در زندگی هر انسانی مجالِ آن هست تا بیرون بخزد از سلّولِ تنگش و آزادي را تمرین کند! هر چه می خواهد بگوید دستانش را به هر طرفی که خواست تکان بدهد! آن دم که مایل است دوست بدارد...

The sword has spoke the truth - in authority and wisdom - only the sword O Damascus is certain!

It’s not a shame if a man learns something from a woman’s heart which makes him more gentle and human.

Had I told the sea what I felt for you, it would have left its shores, its shells, its fish, and followed me. — Nizar Qabbani

The two years You were my lover Are the two most important pages In the book of modern love. All the pages before and after Were blank. These pages Are the lines of the equator Passing between your lips and mine They are the measures of time That are used To set the clocks of the world.

We lost the war and it is not a surprise because we entered it with everything Eastern of the illusions of speeches. We invoke Antar and yet cannot slay a fly, because we entered it with the logic of the reed and the flute.

Her cara Ku min helbestek li ser te got Gelê min ez dam ber lomeyan! Ku "Çima helbestekê li ser welêt nabêjî !?" Gelo ma jin tiştek bilî Welêt e...?

Please, Respect my silence, Silence is my best weapon Did you feel my words When I fell silent? Did you feel the beauty of what I said When I said nothing?

إغضب كما تشاء.. واجرح أحاسيسي كما تشاء حطم أواني الزهر والمرايا هدد بحب امرأةٍ سوايا.. فكل ما تفعله سواء..... كل ما تقوله سواء.. فأنت كالأطفال يا حبيبي نحبهم.. مهما لنا أساؤوا.. إغضب! فأنت رائعٌ حقاً متى تثور إغضب! فلولا الموج ما تكونت بحور.. كن عاصفاً.. كن ممطراً.. فإن قلبي دائماً غفور إغضب!

من به کیش تو در آمدم حتی اگر کفرباشد

The late Syrian poet Nizar Qabbani wrote: “The female doesn’t want a rich man or a handsome man or even a poet, she wants a man who understands her eyes if she gets sad, and points to his chest and says ‘Here is your home country.’ 

They see that giving birth to a man is hope, and giving birth to a woman is a disappointment, although every man's dream is a woman and every woman's disappointment is a man.

Non so scrivere su Damasco senza che si intrecci il gelsomino sulle mie dita. Non so pronunciare il suo nome senza che sulla mia bocca si addensi il nettare dell’albicocca, del melograno, della mora e del cotogno. Non so ricordarla senza che si posino su un muretto della memoria mille colombe… e mille colombe volano.

I do not resemble your other lovers, my lady. Should another give you a cloud, I give you rain. Should he give you a lantern, I will give you the moon. Should he give you a branch, I will give you the trees, and if another gives you a ship, I shall give you the journey.

ای کاش باهم در فلورانس آنجا که مجسمه های میکل آنژ نان و شراب را با مسافران شهر قسمت می کنند شام می خوردیم

My lover asks me: “What is the difference between me and the sky?” The difference, my love, Is that when you laugh, I forget about the sky.

Io non posseggo nulla al mondo, tranne i tuoi occhi e la mia tristezza.

أنا شخصيًا أريد أن أستريحْ.. على أيّ حَجَرٍ.. أريد أن أستريحْ. على أيّ كَتِفٍ.. أريدُ أن أستريحْ. فلقد تعبتُ من المراكب التي لا أشرعةَ لها. ومن الأرصفة التي لا أرصفة لها.

We are accused of terrorism If we refuse to perish Under Israeli tyranny That is hampering our unity Our history Our Bible and our Quran Our prophets' land If that is our sin and crime Then terrorism is fine

I don’t know why everyone is still trying to find out whether heaven and hell exist. Why do we need more evidence? They exist here on this very Earth. Heaven is standing atop Mount Qasioun overlooking the Damascene sights with the wind carrying Qabbani’s dulcet words all around you. And hell is only four hours away in Aleppo where children’s cries drown out the explosions of mortar bombs until they lose their voice, their families, and their limbs. Yes, hell certainly does exist right now, at this moment, as I pen this poem. And all we’re doing to extinguish this hellfire is sighing, shrugging, liking, and sharing. Tell me: what exactly does that make us? Are we any better than the gatekeepers of hell?

،سوگند می خورم نام تو را در آسمان دیده ام به لب، قسمت می دهم پاسخی به گریه های من بده

In the summer I stretch out on the shore And think of you Had I told the sea What I felt for you, It would have left its shores, Its shells, Its fish, And followed me.

I throw my passport into the sea, And name you my country, I throw all my dictionaries in the fire, And name you my language.

هذي دمشق.. وهذي الكأس والراح إني أحب... وبعـض الحـب ذباح أنا الدمشقي.. لو شرحتم جسدي لسـال منه عناقيـدٌ.. وتفـاح و لو فتحـتم شراييني بمديتكـم سمعتم في دمي أصوات من راحوا زراعة القلب.. تشفي بعض من عشقو وما لقلـبي –إذا أحببـت جـراح This is Damascus... and this is a glass of spirit (comfort) I am in love... but I am aware of the fact that certain kinds of love can slaughter you in wrath I am a Damascene... if you dissect me into halves You will have but grapes... and apples falling in your path Open my veins with scalpels Hear ancestral chants If heart transplants... can cure some of the passionate Why does mine stay torn in half then?

screen filled with symbols, only this time it was Arabic letters that meant nothing to him. He assumed they meant nothing to Raj as well, and was therefore surprised when Raj pointed out a short sequence. “This is the word for ‘person’ or ‘human being’.” Daniel stared at Raj. “You know Arabic?” “No, not really. I have read Nizar Qabbani in translation, and this word is a particularly beautiful shape, is it not?” “Still waters run deep, Raj. So you read Arabic love poetry. I wouldn’t have ever guessed.” Raj blushed. “Sushma is more woman than I can handle without help,” he admitted. “Qabbani writes more than just love poetry. It is quite erotic.

U rrita nënoke... dhe kam filluar të të ngjaj gjithnjë e më shumë... Tashmë zgjohem herët... dhe flej para të gjithëve... Trafiku ka filluar të më mbysë... e fjalët më lodhin... U rrita nënokja ime dhe kam filluar të pij më shumë çaj... më pëlqejnë barishtet... dhe aroma e qelibarit... U rrita nënoke dhe gjithçka e lexoj vetëm... qaj në heshtje vetëm... dhe përmallem krejt vetëm... U rrita nënokja ime, të gjithë largohen... dhe miqtë janë pakësuar shumë... Më pëlqen më shumë qetësia, e imagjinon dot...? kurse zhurmat m’i shterojnë energjitë... U rrita nënoke dhe s’e shijoj qëndrimin natën vonë... dhe krejt si ti, tashmë është deti ai që më fal qetësi... bota është bërë kaq e komplikuar... e thjeshtësia gjithnjë e më e vështirë... Sot, njerëzit u ngjajnë më shumë kukullave... e unë nuk di të luaj më... Jeta nuk është siç më pate thënë... plot ngjyra... kurse udhët, kryesisht, gumëzhijnë nga njerëzit e shumtë... të gjithëve, nënoke, u rëndojnë halle mbi supe... Gjithnjë e më shumë, nënoke, më merr malli për veten... Kam mall për thjeshtësinë e atyre ditëve në shtëpinë e gjyshit... Kam mall për atë kohë atje, kam mall për ty... Kam mall për veten time të vogël, si dikur... Kam mall për qortimin tënd spontan, të sinqertë, të butë dhe lotues... Tashmë është jeta që më qorton, nënoke... janë ditët e padrejta që kritikojnë... të gjithë ua hedhin fajin të gjithëve... Nuk ka më dashuri pa interes... dhe mirësjellja është shndërruar në një kompliment me kosto... U rrita nënoke dhe pashë që isha plakur... thinjat mi pushtuan flokët e mi të errët, të cilët i doje aq fort... e që dikur u thurrje këngë e luaje me to... U rrita shumë... e bota nuk është aq interesante sa mendoja... U rrita nënoke që ta kuptoj se unë jam ai vogëlushi jot, sado të rritem... dhe se përqafimi yt është e gjithë bota ime... Ah nënokja ime.

Të premtova se nuk do të dua më, por para vendimit të madh, u tuta. Të premtova se nuk do të kthehem, por u ktheva, se nuk do të vdes nga malli, por vdiqa. Të premtova shpesh dhe hoqa dorë po aq shpesh dhe s’më kujtohet që u dorëzova. Premtova shumëçka për veten, çfarë mund të thonë gazetat për këtë? Sigurisht, do shkruajnë që jam çmendur. Sigurisht, do shkruajnë që vrava veten. Të premtova, se do jem i brishtë… ashtu isha, të mos shkruaj poezi për sytë e tu, por shkrova. Premtova të mos… e mos… por kur zbulova idiotësinë time, qesha… Të premtova se do t’i injoroja flokët e tu kur të më kalonin pranë, por kur u tundën si nata e zezë mbi trotuar, bërtita… Të premtova… se do t’i injoroj sytë e tu, pavarësisht mallit, por kur i pashë plot yje, psherëtiva. Të premtova… se s’do të shkruaja asnjë letër dashurie, por shkela mbi veten, të shkrova. Të premtova se s’do jem më në asnjë vend ku do jesh ti, por kur dëgjova se je e ftuar për darkë, erdha edhe unë. Të premtova mos të të dua… Si? Ku? Dhe ç’ditë ishte kur të premtova? Gënjeva nga ndershmëria e madhe dhe lavdi Zotit që gënjeva! Të premtova… krejt i ftohtë, krejt i marrë, duke u vënë zjarrin të gjitha urave pas meje, me vete vendosa t’i vras të gjitha gratë, dhe ty të shpalla luftë, por kur ngrita armën kundër gjinjve të tu, u theva. Kur pashë dy duart e tua paqësore, dënesa… dhe premtova që nuk… që nuk… që nuk… por të gjitha premtimet e mia ishin tym, që e shpërndau era. Të premtova… se s’do të të telefonoj natën, se s’do të të mendoj edhe nëse sëmuresh, se nuk do bëhem merak për ty, nuk do të dërgoj trëndafila, e mos t’i puth dy duart e tua, por të telefonova netëve, pavarësisht premtimit, të dërgova trëndafila, kundër vendimit, t’i putha duart derisa u ngopa. Premtova që mos… që mos… e që mos… por, kur zbulova marrëzinë time, qesha. Të premtova… duke të masakruar pesëdhjetë herë, e kur pashë gjakun në teshat e mia, u sigurova që kisha masakruar veten, prandaj mos më merr seriozisht, sado të zemërohem… sido të reagoj, sado të marr flakë, kurdo të shuhem, gënjeja nga çiltërsia e madhe dhe lavdi Zotit që gënjeja! Të premtova se do t’i jap fund këtij muhabeti, por kur pashë lotët të të rrjedhin faqeve, u hutova… Kur pashë çantat përtokë, kuptova që ti nuk vritesh kaq lehtë, ti je atdheu, je fisi, je poema para krijimit, je shënimet, je shëtitorja, je fëmijëria, je kënga e këngëve, je psalmet, je ndriçuesja, ti je e dërguara. Të premtova… se do t’i fshija sytë nga fletorja e kujtimeve, pa e ditur që po fshija jetën time, pa e ditur që ti, pavarësisht sherrit të vogël, je unë dhe unë jam ti… Të premtova se nuk do të të dua, oh çfarë marrëzie, çfarë i bëra vetes? Gënjeva nga ndershmëria e madhe, lavdi Zotit që gënjeva! Të premtova… se s’do jem këtu pas pesë minutash, por… ku të shkoja? Rrugët janë të lara me shi, ku të hyj? Kafenetë gëlojnë nga tollovia, ku të lundroj vetëm? Ndërkohë që ti je deti, je varka dhe udhëtimi. A është e mundur, të pres edhe dhjetë minuta, sa të ndalet shiu? E sigurt, do iki, sapo të ikin retë, sapo të qetësohet era, përndryshe… do jem në zijafetin tënd, derisa të vijë mëngjesi. Të premtova… se s’do të dua, si të çmendurit, për herë të dytë, mos të të sulmoj, siç bëjnë harabelat, me pemën e lartë të mollës tënde, dhe mos t’i kreh flokët kur të flesh, o macja ime e shtrenjtë… Të premtova që s’do ta humbas pjesën e mbetur të mendjes, nëse bie mbi mua si një yll këmbëzbathur. Premtova ta përmbaj çmendurinë time, dhe më vjen mirë që akoma jam kaq ekstrem kur dashuroj, njëlloj siç isha herën e fundit. Të premtova… që s’do të kthehem, por u ktheva, që nuk do vdes nga malli, por vdiqa, dhe u ktheva me gjëra më shumë se vetja; ç’i bëra vetes? Gënjeja nga ndershmëria e madhe dhe lavdi Zotit që gënjeja!

Si quieres matar a alguien, conquista su corazón, entonces déjalo lentamente y dejándolo entre la muerte y la locura

Oh, my love If you were at the level of my madness, You would cast away your jewelry, Sell all your bracelets, And sleep in my eyes.

علمينا خطا العروبة يا شآم فأنت البيان والتبيين

Love happened at last, And we entered God's paradise, Sliding Under the skin of the water Like fish. We saw the precious pearls of the sea And were amazed. Love happened at last Without intimidation...with symmetry of wish. So I gave...and you gave And we were fair. It happened with marvelous ease Like writing with jasmine water, Like a spring flowing from the ground.

Your feet on the carpet are the shape and stance of poetry.

tell me even though lies soft words it was about to kill me with you that statue i still in the art of love a baby between us seas and mountains you still can't understand that all men are babies so if i stood before your love quietly then quietness in the love is love our words in love are killing our love and letters are dying after they're said love stories may drive you crazy cause its all full of fantasies love is not a story,my dear where the stars marry each other by the end its to get hot blooded for anything silly it's our misery, it's our killing doubting it's this hand that assassin us and we accept that hand that assassin

My beloved, if one day they ask you about me, Do not hesitate and tell them with pride: 'He loves me, he loves me a lot.