مَاحِيُّ الْأحْلَاَمِ للكاتب نيل جايمان ترجمتها للعربية زهراء رحيم هامل \ جامعة البصرة
مَاحِيُّ الْأحْلَاَمِ
بَعْدَ انَّ يَنْتَهِي كُلُّ التَّحَلُّمُ، بَعْدَ اِسْتيقَاظِكَ،
وَاِنْصِرَافَ عَالَمِ الْاِخْتِلَالِ الْعَقْلِيِّ
وَالْفَخْرِ لِيَوْمِ آخْر مَشْحُوذَ بألاظطهادْ مِنْ خِلَالَ بَقَايَا
خَيَالِكَ الْمُوحِشِ يَظْهَر مَاحِي الاحلام ........
مَنْ يُعَرِّفُ كَيْفَ كَانَ عَنْدَمَا كَانَ مُتَيَقِّظٌ ؟ أَوِ اذا كَانَ
مُتَيَقِّظَا دَوْمَا لِهَذَا الْأَمْرِ،
بِالتَّأْكِيدِ لَنْ يُجِيبَ عَلَى اسئلتك.
يَتحَدثْ الْمَاحيُّ قَلِيلَا بِصَوْتِهِ الْكَئِيبِ الْغَامِضِ
وَ عَنْدَمَا يَتحَدثْ فَمُعْظَمَ حَدِيثْهُ يَتَعَلَّقُ بِالطَّقْسِ وَ
جَوَانِبُ إنتصارات وَ اِنْهِزَامٌ فَرْقَ رِيَاضِيَّةَ مُعَيَّنَةَ إِنَّهُ
يَسْتَصْغِرُ كُلُّ مَنْ لَيْسَ هُوَ.
لِحَضَّةٍ إستيقاظك يَأْتِي الِيُّكَ وَيَمَّحِي الممالك وَ الْقُلَّاعُ وَ
الْمَلَاَئِكَةُ وَ الْبُومُ وَالْجِبَالُ وَالْمُحِيطَاتُ . يَمَّحِي الرَّغْبَةُ
الْجِنْسِيَّةُ وَ الْحُبُّ وَ الْمُحِبِّينَ،
نَبَاتَاتُ الفراشة لِيُسَوِّ
فَرَاشَاتٌ، أَزَهَّارَ اللَّحْمِ، رَكَضَ الْغَزَالُ وَ غَرِقُ سَفِينَةَ
لوسيتانيا* يَمَّحِي كُلُّ مَا تَرْكَتِهِ وَرَاء احلامك، الْحَيَاةَ الَّتِي
عِشْتَها، الْعُيُونَ الَّتِي حَدَقْت بِهَا، وَرَقَةَ الأمتحان الَّتِي لَمْ
تَتَمَكَّنْ مِنْ إيجادها. وَاحِدَةُ
بَعْدَ الْأُخْرَى يمحيهم بَعيدَا،
الْمَرْأَةَ ذَاتُ الْأسْنَانِ الشرسه الَّتِي غَرَسَتْ أسْنَانُهَا فِي
وَجْهِكَ، الْخَوْفَ فِي الْغَابَةِ
ذِرَاعَ الْمَيْتِ الَّتِي اِخْتَرَقَتْ الْمَاءِ الْفَاتِرُ فِي الْحَمَامِ، وَالْحَشَرَاتِ ذَاتُ
اللَّوْنِ الْأحْمَرِ الَّتِي تَسِيرُ عَلَى صَدْرِكَ عَنْدَمَا تَفَتُّحِ قَمِيصِ
النَّوْمِ فَسَوْفَ يمحيها كُلَّهَا
كُلَّ شَيْءِ يُغَادِرُكَ عَنْدَمَا تَسْتَيْقِظُ، وَمَنْ ثُمَّ تُضِئْ
خَيَّالُكَ لِتتركْ المَسَآحَة جَدِيدُة لِأحْلَاَمِ الْأيَّامِ التَّالِيَةِ
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•لوسيتانيا سفينة
بحرية
R.M.S lusitania التابعة لشركة كونارد لاين غرقت في الحرب العالميه الأولى ٧مايو١٩١١
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إِذَا رَأْيَتِهِ تُعَامِلُ مَعَهُ بِشَكْلِ جِيدٍ، كُنْ مُهَذَّبًا
مَعَهُ، لَا تَسْأَلْهُ عَنْ أَيِّ شَيْءٍ. وَافَقَهُ فِي إنتصارات فَرَّقَهُ، وَ
تَعَاطُفُ مَعَهُ عَلَى إنهزاماته، إِتْفق مَعَهُ حَوْلَ الْطَقْس ، وَ إعطيه
الْاِحْتِرَامَ الَّذِي يَسْتَحِقُّهُ
هُنَاكَ اشخاص لَمْ يَعُدْ يَطُلْ عَلَيْهُمْ مَاحَي الاحلام، مَعَ
سَجَائِرِهِ الْمَلْفُوفُ يَدَوِيًّا وَ وَشْمُ التِّنِّينِ الَّذِي رأيتموه مُسَبَّقًا
ً .
وَلََقَدَّ رَأْيَتُهُمْ لَدَيْهُمْ أَفَوَاهٍ تَرْتَعِشُ وَ عُيُونُ
تُحْدِقُ
وَهُمْ يُثَرْثِرُونَ مَعَ الْبُكَاءِ الْمَصْحُوبِ ب الْألَمَ وَ هُمْ
يَتَذَمَّرُونَ الْبَعْضَ مِنْهُمْ يَمْشِي فِي الشَّوَارِعِ وَهُوَ يَرْتَدِي
مَلَاَبِسَ مُمَزِّقَةَ
وَ اشيائهم مخبِئَة تَحْتَ اذرعهم وَ الْبَعْضُ الاخر مِنْهُمْ يَخُوضُونَ
بِأَمَاكِنِ مُظْلِمَةِ لَمْ يَعُدْ بِوُسْعِهِمْ إيذاء انفسهم او إيذاء الاخرين
إِنَّهُمْ لِيُسَوِّ مُخْتَلَّيْنِ عَقْليا او بلاحرى فُقْدَانَ الصِّحَّةِ
الْعَقْلِيَّةِ اُقْلُ مَشَاكِلَهُمْ وَ اِنْهَ اسوء مِنَ الْجُنُونِ،
سَيَقُولُونَ لَكَ اذا سَمُحَتْ لهم ؛ هُمِ الَّذِينَ يُعَيِّشُونَ كُلَّ يَوْمٍ
عَلَى بَقَايَا احلامهم
وَ اذا غَادَرَكَ مَاحُي الاحلام فَلَنْ يَعُودَ
ابداً وَ سَتَعِيشُ كُلُّ يَوْمٍ عَلَى بَقَايَا احلامك 
THE
SWEEPER OF DREAMS
By:
Neil Gaiman
After all the dreaming is
over, after you wake and leave the world of madness and glory for the mundane
day-lit daily grind, through the
wreckage of your abandoned
fancies walks the sweeper of dreams.
Who knows what he was when he
was alive? Or if, for that matter, he ever was alive. He certainly will not
answer your questions. The sweeper talks little, in his gruff gray voice, and
when he does speak it is mostly about the weather and the prospects, victories
and defeats of certain sports teams. He despises everyone who is not him.
Just as you wake he comes to
you, and he sweeps up kingdoms and castles, and angels and owls, mountains and
oceans. He sweeps up the lust and the love and the lovers, the sages who are
not butterflies, the flowers of meat, the running of the deer and the sinking
of the Lusitania. He sweeps up everything you left behind in your dreams, the life
you wore, the eyes through which you gazed, the examination paper you were
never able to find. One by one he sweeps them away: the sharp-toothed woman who
sank her teeth into your face; the nuns in the woods; the dead arm that broke
through the tepid water of the bath; the scarlet worms that crawled in your
chest when you opened your shirt.
He will sweep it up—everything
you left behind when you woke. And then he will burn it, to leave the stage
fresh for your dreams tomorrow.
Treat him well, if you see
him. Be polite with him. Ask him no questions. Applaud his teams’ victories,
commiserate with him over their losses, agree with him about the weather. Give
him the respect he feels is his due.
For there are people he no
longer visits, the sweeper of dreams, with his hand-rolled cigarettes and his
dragon tattoo.
You’ve seen them. They have
mouths that twitch, and eyes that stare, and they babble and they mewl and they
whimper. Some of them walk the cities in ragged clothes, their belongings under
their arms. Others of their number are locked in the dark, in places where they
can no longer harm themselves or others. They are not mad, or rather, the loss
of their sanity is the lesser of their problems. It is worse than madness. They
will tell you, if you let them: they are the ones who live, each day, in the
wreckage of their dreams.
And if the sweeper of dreams
leaves you, he will never come back.
