I am the wife of your father, the king of swines,
And I have to salute his concubines.
I am the mother of your country,
Though I host only orphans before delivery.
How come I have to kiss my husband’s whores
And yet the protocol forbids me to do the chores?
He cannot be a man unless my bed becomes repudiated,
And I listen to the joy in the room from which I am alienated.
But I have been taught as a lady to be a silent patriot,
And so I leave my one husband to the nation’s harlots.
You are the sons and daughters of stolen marriages,
The heirs I should be exhibiting in golden carriages.
I could make love until all sins disappear from earth
But even a djinn could not seize me so I give the first birth.
My husband, alas, has no patience for our misfortune
And with my sorrow of solitude he cannot sing in tune.
So I sing, and I smile on his behalf, for those courtiers,
For I must carry the flag of his pride beyond my tears.
How long will he parade into the arms of pretty torture?
Is it not enough that I am denied the pains of a mother?
Nature is so cruel to the ones who do not serve her well,
Her mad impatience for eternity casts on all of us a spell.
But I am no midwife, with my mission to deliver miscarriages,
Nor a middlewoman between our mistresses and marriages.
I am weary of the sly and smart smiles and sisterly solicitude,
And wish to sleep in the dream of a child for my own plenitude.