Split me in two
And spread the gash.
There, between the pillows
Of my lungs, tangled
In my intestines, buried
In the gory gelatine,
You will find my dead son.
Blue eyes like punched out sky.
His mind could cut patterns
From the world more intricate
Than the fretting in a Muslim temple.
At age two, his angers
Could shred the air
With black knives.
At three, an idiot Israeli
Tossed him fifteen feet
With the snout of a red sports car.
He lived thirty years
With a machine for lungs.
His body, twisted and confused,
Blundered into death
Leading his tethered mind which called,
'Save me, save me.'
I have his legacy.
Black knives.
Sad and pathetic one understand your sufferings May Allah rest him in peace and peace be with u and your family
Sad and pathetic one understand your sufferings May Allah rest him in peace and peace be with u and your family
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
What a sad poem, tears at ones heart. On a lighter note, Read mine - Legacy - Adeline