They used to translate the war
for a newspaper;
My fingers
Filled with the dead.
They are tasteless in bed.
The fingers that cross
Over the breasts at night
Are the same fingers that pull
A trigger,
Write reports
And open prison gates.
Fingers that left their prints
On a bus near the Zawra Gardens
And on a rusted gun
At the Rashid Barracks
Have filled with snow;
With letters that cannot write from the left.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Fingers which are capable of rendering charity are also capable of horrendous crimes. The beauty of poetry is in the articulation, encapsulation, and penning of thoughts. A lovely poem written with insight. Thanks for sharing. Please read my poem MANDELA - THE IMMORTAL ICON.