Poor Rail! - A poem by Majid al-Saffah

https://youtu.be/j7Pa7fday9U Poor Rail By Majid al-Saffah Translated by Rafed Khashan This poem should join the ranks of the rail poems written by Philip Larkin, Robert Louis Stevenson, Ezra Pound, and others who celebrated the rail or regretted its decline. I fell in love with this poem and immediately started translating it. I did not finish it yet, but it is worth sharing to receive any feedback or comments. Saffah regrets in this poignant poem the poor conditions of the Iraqi rail especially after the invasion of Iraq in 2003. Poor Rail Poor rail, I saw it yesterday dragging its cabins in humiliation! Poor rail, I saw it yesterday noon coming down yet careworn, As if carrying the post-70 worries of its age! Poor rail, how sweet it was in the bygone days when it passed by us! How sweet it was in the past when it passed through the towns! I felt as if it entered our homes and woke us up. Yet now, it sounded as if it was robbed of its sound. I wonder who silenced it and who did humiliate it? Poor rail, how audacious it was in bygone days! Poor rail, its stations turned into ruins as if they were graves. Alas! They were also included in the “who-cares law!” They were glowing meeting places of lovers. How many a time did we bid farewell to our loved ones! And how many a time did we receive them thence! “Zamil” wrote the poems of our yearnings on the rail. And the “Rail and Hamad” is the most beautiful of our lyrics! O, rail! What changed you? You look sad when you pass by. You turn your face to the other side, And do not look to us? We fell into your sound’s love when we were kids. Is it possible the beloved denies his lovers? O, rail! Why when you come back, You are not excited, as if You are being led to the guillotine? You are being dragged on your face when you pass by. What happened to your old energy and excitement? He says the problem is with you, not with me. I am keeping my old habit that you did not forget. I used to leave and come down whenever I wanted. And the night walk was the sweetest of all walks. My stations, in bygone days, were in everyone’s heart Because everyone was my folk. I used to leave at night from the Abode of Peace Peacefully I glide down with no flinching eyes, Walking with pride like a peasant proud of his orchard. I pass through the historical city of Babylon, And see the remnants of Kish and the glory of our past. And through the Khaza’al’s turf, I go and sniff Hamoud’s perfume, Who teased his audience with his smart riddles.