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詩 − マフムード・ダルウィーシュ ２００１年６月２８日（木）
Hallowed by your hands, you who clutch the last stone and the last ember.
Hallowed by your hands, which, all by themselves, raise mountains from the ruins of the orphaned sea.
And may your scorched shadows turn into the ashes of a phoenix from which a new life will rise that you may create from these ashes and yourselves a manger for a child to be born.
And may your names sprout sweet basil on a plain that stretches under your footsteps-a plain where a grain of wheat can find its way back to its stolen soil.
You who are rising within us like moons kneaded into shape by a generous blood that calls out to fort guards who have fled to enemy lines, with no answer except a mocking echo.
You are all alone!
Lift up, then, another hundred cities over this rifle's hammer, and let old towns emerge from their stables and from under the domination of locusts growing in the tents of the wild ass of the desert.
Show us the way to us, that we may ride ourselves of the burden of corpses that aren't our corpses, and rotten fruit dangling from a language not our language, that we may follow in our own footsteps, not those of Caesar, who robbed us of identity and path.
For us, no death is left except the death of death itself.
You are defending the lineage of this coast against the mix up of meanings, that history shall not be made docile and the place a mere estate to be inherited.
Hallowed be your hands, you, clutching the last stone and the last ember.
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