if i were to write the stories
about the lives of those who were already dead
remembering them when we carried
wrought iron in the hills
many years back and then when they were buried
on those shallow graves
and then i was the lucky one who escaped and then
kept on running and running without looking back
and then i change the color of my shirt and pants and
then i pretend that i have fully discovered the place for me
i tell you, if i make you read these stories, these will
all be about guilt, guilt, unnecessary guilt,
and i become so tired, i like to go back inside my room,
take my pillow, stare at the ceiling, and then
those bones come, each bone telling a story,
as i cover my ears, and promise that tomorrow
tomorrow, i will start to write and write truly about
what happened there, and then i may die in peace
even in my sleep tonight.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem