Poet's Passion
"Poet Hind performs at cultural festivals across the kingdom. When translator Erik wants to bring her work to global audiences, verses become verses of a different kind. 'Al shi'r lughit al qalb' (الشعر لغة القلب) - Poetry is the language of the heart."
"Your translation loses the rhythm."
Erik Lindgren looked up from his manuscript. The poet herself stood in his doorway.
"It preserves the meaning."
"Poetry isn't about meaning." Hind Al-Rashid sat across from him. "It's about music. Feeling. The spaces between words."
"Then help me understand."
He was Sweden's foremost Arabic literature translator—renowned for accuracy, criticized for missing soul. Her poetry had challenged him for months.
"Al shi'r lughit al qalb," she recited. Poetry is the language of the heart.
"How do I translate that?"
"By feeling it first."
Their collaboration began academically. Hind performed verses while Erik searched for equivalents. But equivalents, they discovered, didn't exist.
"This line," he pointed. "About desert wind. Swedish has no word—"
"Swedish has snow. Ice. Different experiences." She leaned close. "Find your own language's equivalent feeling."
At forty-six, Hind had been married to her art—verses her children, performances her relationships.
"Why don't you publish internationally?" Erik asked.
"Because translation murders poetry." She smiled slightly. "Present company attempting exception."
"I'm trying."
"That's why you're still here."
"Recite for me," he asked one midnight. "Not for translation. For understanding."
She spoke verses about love—longing, fulfillment, the ache of absence. Her voice made Swedish consonants feel inadequate.
"That's what I'm trying to capture," he breathed.
"You can't capture it." Her eyes held his. "You can only feel it."
The first kiss was poetic—structured yet improvised, meaningful yet surprising.
"This wasn't planned," Hind admitted.
"The best verses never are."
They made love surrounded by manuscripts—her Arabic originals, his Swedish attempts, the impossible bridge between.
"You're beautiful," Erik murmured.
"That translates poorly."
"Some things don't need translation."
His mouth traced poetry down her body—alliteration of kisses, metaphor of touch. When he reached her center, Hind spoke verses in Arabic he'd never heard before.
"What does that mean?" he gasped.
"It means don't stop."
She came reciting fragments, pleasure making language unnecessary. Erik rose, grinning.
"I think I understood that."
"Then translate it."
He filled her with a groan, both of them writing new verses in sensation.
"Du är underbar," he gasped in Swedish.
"Translation?"
"You're wonderful."
"Close enough."
They moved together like rhyme finding rhythm—inevitable, satisfying, complete.
"Jag är nära," he warned.
"Sawa." She pulled him deeper. "Ma'aya."
They crested together, pleasure transcending all language. Erik held her as words returned.
"I know how to translate now," he said.
"How?"
"By loving the source."
His translation of her collected works won international prizes—readers felt rather than merely understood.
"How did you finally capture it?" critics asked.
"I fell in love with the poet," he answered honestly.
Their wedding featured readings in both languages—guests understanding regardless of comprehension.
"Al shi'r lughit al qalb," Hind recited.
"Poesi är hjärtats språk," Erik echoed.
The same truth in different words—which, they'd learned, was what love demanded. Not perfect translation. Perfect feeling.