A Dream Under a Willow Tree

The house seems to peep through the pussy willows as if from a dream or a memory. The title is a poem written by a poet from Gaza, Mohammed Arafat, about the naqba, the 'catastrophe', in 1948 when many thousands of  Palestinian Arabs were dispersed from their homes and their land and have never returned to them except in  memories.  A refugee's lament like so many others: the details may vary but the emotions are the same.
                                                                                
 
The breeze stopped suddenly,
The skies filled with black clouds,
There was no rain,
A piece of that high crescent looked at me,
… it disappeared,
Willows' leaves were withered and crisped over me,
They were yellow,
Branches wanted to cry, but they did not,
They were wood,
The scene was dreary and sullen,
It was late on a Friday in October,
Around me, olive trees were not harvested yet,
I walked miles to arrive this area,
Under the cold and freezing weather,
Under the storms racing into the forests,
… But I had the intention, and I arrived,
My heart was volcanic,
But sometimes trembling like the autumn's leaf,
I stood on a high hill,
A hill overlooking Jerusalem,
And the occupied lands,
But I could see nothing,
It was dark… very dark,
I wanted to see my old home,
My swing,
The broken table in the yard,
My mother's domestics,
And her smell,
My father's planets,
And his smell,
His cart and the strong white mare,
The orange orchard of my grandmother,
Her little walker beside the trees,
And her wheelchair,
The great wall near the golden mosque,
The great bell of the huge church,
The dome of the rock,
The wide hall,
The fountain of prayers,
And Marwanic mosque,
The…
But I woke up,
No one awoke me up,
It was only a dream,
A hard dream,
A simple dream,
A quick one,
I picked up my father old home's key,
It was under my pillow,
I kissed it,
Hugged it,
My tears cried over it,
And said, I missed the people who held you,
I missed the people, who held you.