He is sleeping, his fingers curled,
his belly pooled open, his legs gathered,
still in their bent blossom victory.
I couldn't speak of 'war' (though we all do),
if I were still the woman who gave birth to you
soft-footed, with your empty hand and calling heart,
that border of new clues. May the hard birth
our two heartbeats unfurled for two nights
that lasted as long as this war make all sands rage,
until the mouth of war drops its cup, this bleeding gift we poured.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem