A River Dies of Thirst, Mahmoud Darwish

Sometimes, when I feel overwhelmed by life, I’ll pick up random books from my shelves and open them to random pages.  It’s a habit I’ve had since I was a very young girl and I’m sorry to say that it originally came from reading Richard Bach’s Illuminations. But now, I’m not looking for messages from the universe. It is more like having a mental reset button, or seeking a change of internal scenery. If I’m lucky, I’ll breathe in the words, and life will be a little bit different when I look back up from the page. If that happens, I’ll post it here.

Summer and winter

There is nothing new. The seasons here are two:
a summer as long as a far away minaret
and a winter like a nun praying
As for spring
it cannot stop
except to say: ‘Greetings to you
on Ascension Day’
While autumn
is merely a place of seclusion
in which to contemplate how much of our life we have lost
on the return journey
‘Where did we leave our life behind?’ I asked the butterfly
circling around in the light
and it burnt up in its tears.

-Mahmoud Darwish, A River Dies of Thirst (Archipelago Books, 2009)