Elegy
I felt the penetration
As if I was a quilt
In the hand of an old woman
In a mud-house
In a desert
And her flickering light,
A candle
Three-color flame
Red, golden and smoke
Danced in the breeze
Of its final moments
Of her breath.
I felt her needle
The nippy air of Siberia
The escaping wilderness of Prairie
That burned my skin.
Not burned …
What is the word?
Joy?
Pleasure?
Pain?
Disappearance?
Sarcasm?
Trance?
Whatever the word; it came with an elegy.
And it drilled its way
Fracked into my marrow
The:
“…she died, kneeling
in the dirt under the sun, calling me darling
in Arabic, which no one has since.”
Of Hayan Charara
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem