At the top of the hill there is a garden [Rās al-Bustān]
It is said (that is to say that there are people who tell other people who tell other people who, etc., across generations) that at the top of the hill there is a garden, that this garden is beautiful (that is to say that the people who tell other people imagine, each of them, deep within themselves, the most beautiful of gardens and according to their ability to conjure up and perceive such images might envisage a specific garden
— with particular flowers and trees, pines and chrysanthemums for example and freshly cut grass and vineyards in the distance where one can hear birdsong, and it’s the beginning of autumn —
or maybe more of an impression, a burst of green
or perhaps, they imagine a melody rather than a garden which carries within it the essence of a garden,
the most beautiful garden
or perhaps they imagine not so much the garden as the room from which they see the garden framed by the window, or perhaps — and these are my favorites — they imagine clearly, from the word, and the word alone, the ideal garden without seeing anything other than the word and how the word manifests as a garden)
and in this beautiful garden, the most beautiful of gardens, they say there is imprisoned a prince
(prince of what? not much of anything, he is simply a prince so they may picture him noble, sweet, handsome in this garden; if he was prince of something he would seem anachronistic or despotic or even spoiled but here he is a prince as in certain tales, prince only because he exerts
on us
a commanding desire to know more)
and this prince has been a prisoner to the garden for so long
so long
that he’s forgotten he’s a prisoner, forgotten his very self
so long
that he lives in ignorance, subject to the arrangement of the garden
and so
the centuries pass in this garden, each day fresh and new, where
there lives a prince who does not know
that he lives in the beautiful garden
nor that he lives at all
and
no one comes (it’s been so long that the prince has forgotten the very idea of no one, or of anyone, or of coming, of the self; he has forgotten the others as he has forgotten himself, he recalls the garden as if it were his only memory, he might die of it were he to leave the garden now).
They no longer know who or what once imprisoned the prince nor by what magic; it has been so long that that evil or jealous power, that sadistic sorcerer or lustful necromant, that corrupt magician or undead wizardess has (perhaps) forgotten that they created a garden and trapped a beautiful prince therein
this would be a tragedy, if the prince remembered it, or if the garden was arid, but
the garden is beautiful, arcane and lustrous
the prince is beautiful, young, and remembers nothing and so goes his life, every day he discovers in the garden — that is to say in himself as well — things which amaze him. Sometimes it’s a ray of sun or a drop of water or a blue rock or maybe a butterfly or a red or green apple or a pear or a peach or his finger or a caterpillar or perhaps a bit of rain, a cloud, his foot, the sky, some mud beneath a stone and a pond or perhaps he finds a bridge
there are — it is a garden after all, not a forest or a jungle — follies and pavilions and cottages and colonnades,
like the bridge which changes place every day, and also
the temple
at the back of the garden and dedicated to some forgotten god of whom all that remains is a crumbling statue covered in ivy (one of his ears is that of a stag and the god is young and handsome like the prince, and attentive too) and of whom the prince does not think for he has forgotten all notion of self and of other and of god and of creatures, and for him, all of these marvelous things, the butterfly and the temple and his foot and the apple are all
one and the same
unified thing
which is him
which he sees from different angles
and so he goes on
awestruck each day
at being a garden
at being himself
until the end of time.
The prince likes to climb — if ‘like’ truly applies to this instinctive urge, this compulsive journey through oneself —, he likes to climb to the top of the garden’s hill (which is itself on a hill) where one can see nothing beyond the garden, for the garden stretches garden-like to the edges of time and space but he looks at
the far reaches of the garden so great and yet
so small
like a nest
and he looks the way one looks at oneself and sees himself
stretched out like this
to the edge of the sky
and farther still
seated upon the hill
at the top
of the garden.
It is said that one day
the spell will be broken and
the garden will dissipate and the prince will be free
or perhaps
the prince will remember a number of things
and will find at the back of the garden a gateway, all rusted
through which he can push
to come into the world
or perhaps the sorcerer or sorceress who
once imprisoned the prince
will awaken or remember quite suddenly shoot I forgot
a prince in a garden
and will then come to free him sorry kid this all just slipped my mind
and then the prince will leave the garden
will leave his very self for he will have to acknowledge then that he and the garden are not the same nor the butterflies or the sun or the sky or the apples or the watermelons or the grass or the rain or any of it, each thing is itself and he is a self among the selves and he
will come back to the world, this
prince.
and he will spend his first night and his first day in the world
and he will weep not with sadness for that is one of the things he has forgotten for good,
but he will weep with grief, that’s it, with
grief,
and with the first dawn he will have to see himself as a body separate from the rest
and with the second dawn will feel like a body separate from the rest
he will for the first time in centuries be truly in pain
and with the third dawn he will have
to decide
if he still wants to live
in this world where he is him, alone, and not garden-him
and then
perhaps
he will take his own life (but ‘taking his life’ sounds like taking it into his own hands
when instead he will be taken
taken
by death)
for this
this option
is one we never forget
it knows how to wait
patiently
for the perfect moment
to present itself to you
hand outstretched:
“Come.”
But I hope he will not do this, for
I love the prince
who lives in a garden
at the top of a hill.
Translator’s Note:
I was first introduced to Karim Kattan’s work through his sophomore novel, L’Eden à l’aube, and was blown away by his vivid, beautifully rendered storytelling. I found the same in his recent poetry collection, Hortus Conclusus, whose poems explore the notion of le jardin enclos as a space between, a vital force that blooms in spite of the aridity caused by colonial violence: “The empire and all which resists it. All in the garden.”
Palestine is at the very heart of the poems in this collection, even if not all of them take place there. Kattan writes in the foreword that this particular poem – “At the top of the hill there is a garden [Rās al-Bustān]” – was inspired by a garden in al-Azariyeh, behind the tomb of Lazarus, where he has to go to renew his papers with the Israeli occupation. In Arabic, ‘bustān’ means ‘garden’ or ‘orchard.’ This term, along with the collection’s title, Hortus Conclusus (which invokes both a convent of the same name in Artas and the story that unfolds in the Song of Solomon), conjures images of lush vegetation and divine fruits – imagery which is harshly at odds with the violent apartheid being carried out just next door. The garden in this poem, therefore, exists at “the intersection of brutality and dreams.” It is within this beautiful garden that we watch a beautiful prince live out his days, subject to this space that is in a constant state of flux and change. The garden is an enclosure, but is also a sort of escape. A respite from the horrors of the empire outside, and simultaneously a reflection of the prince himself as well, full of things wondrous and strange.
Karim Kattan is a Palestinian writer from Bethlehem, born in Jerusalem. He holds a doctorate in comparative literature and writes fiction, essays, and poetry in English and French. His novels are published by Éditions Elyzad, based in Tunisia. His debut, Le palais des deux collines (2021), won the Prix des cinq continents de la francophonie. His second, L’Éden à l’aube (2024) was shortlisted for the Prix Renaudot. His poetry collection Hortus Conclusus appeared in 2025. His work, widely translated, has been published in journals including The Paris Review, The Dial, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, and The Baffler.
Kathryn Raver is a writer and translator currently based in France. Following her studies in French at the University of Iowa and Linguistics at King’s College London, she now works as an Assistant Managing Editor for Asymptote Journal and spends her free time haunting the catacombs and coffee shops of Paris. She is an avid champion of translated literature, and is particularly interested in LGBTQ+ stories and speculative fiction.
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