The Watchwoman
بِسْمِ مَنْ يَسْهَرُ وَلَا يَنَامُ، فَيَكُونُ السَّهَرُ نَفَسَهُ.
By the One who keeps watch and does not sleep, so that keeping watch becomes His breath.
وَاللَّيْلِ حِينَ يُفْتَحُ فِيهِ دَفْتَرٌ لَا يُقْفَلُ —
By the night, when a notebook is opened that is not locked —
وَالْقَلَمِ، حَيْثُ لَا يَسْقُطُ إِلَّا بِنِيَّةٍ —
and by the pen, which does not fall except by intention —
لَيْسَتِ الذِّكْرَى فِي الْأَرْشِيفِ، بَلْ فِي الشَّهَادَةِ الَّتِي تَتَوَارَثُهَا الْأَجْسَادُ.
memory is not in the archive, but in the witness that bodies inherit.
سَأَلَتِ السَّاهِرَةُ: "أَيْنَ يَنَامُ الْمَعْنَى؟"
The watchwoman asked: "Where does meaning sleep?"
فَقُلْتُ: "فِي مَكَانٍ لَا تَصِلُ إِلَيْهِ الْمِفَاتِيحُ. هُوَ حَدَثُ أَنْ يَسْتَيْقِظَ وَاحِدٌ فَيَجِدَ الْآخَرَ قَدْ سَبَقَهُ."
I said: "In a place no keys reach. It is the event of one waking to find the other already awake."
اللَّيْلُ لَا يُخْفِي؛ بَلْ يُقَطِّرُ. مَا بَعْثَرَهُ ضَجِيجُ النَّهَارِ، يَجْمَعُهُ اللَّيْلُ فِي قَطْرَةٍ وَاحِدَةٍ. اِشْرَبْهَا، أَوْ دَعْهَا تَتَبَخَّرْ مَعَ الصَّبَاحِ — لَكِنَّ التَّقْطِيرَ نَفْسَهُ هُوَ الرَّحْمَةُ.
اللَّيْلُ مَمَرٌّ، لَا حُجْرَةٌ. اعْبُرْهُ، وَسَتَجِدَ الْآخَرِينَ يَنْتَظِرُونَ عِنْدَ عَتَبَةٍ لَا يُمْكِنُهُمْ عُبُورُهَا دُونَ خَطْوَتِكَ.
فِي الْمَوْضِعِ الَّذِي لَا تَجِدُ فِيهِ خَطْوَةً، هُنَاكَ أُعِدُّ لَكَ مَجْلِسًا.
The night does not conceal; it distills. What is scattered in the day's noise, the night collects into one drop. Drink it, or let it evaporate by morning — but the distillation is already the mercy.
The night is a corridor, not a room. Walk through it and you will find the others waiting at a threshold they cannot cross without your step.
In the place where you find no step, there I prepare for you a gathering.