Whether to cry out in answer to
My father’s strangled cries
as he shifts bricks above my head,
or whether to keep silent, holding back
this dust with clamped lips. I lie
sealed in and cannot choose.
If I speak, death will steal my breath
seeping in at the mouth;
if I choose silence he may go away
and weep, and never know how close
my grave or how I longed to answer.
Someone flutes powder from my face.
I feel warm breath. My eyelids move:
Their flutter fills my eyes with grit.
Weight lifts from my chest and arms
and inch by inch I live again.
In my father’s arms
I cannot find strength to haul up
words from my darkness.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem