And there they kneel compliant
These tin-foil, silent
Spectres: hijabbed humanity
Facing east, in humility,
An army of aluminium
But I catch a shimmer of rebellion
As, here and there, I spot
A posture that is not so even as I thought.
Though shiny and regimented,
A hum of individuality lurks unintended
Inside this sanitised, homogenised throng;
It is as if they long
For freedom, but their souls
Are as empty as the holes
In this scintillating sculpture
Evacuated by culture
And they are, at most,
Just ghosts.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem