ISN’T IT ENOUGH?
I gave up love
being satisfied with
quiet of shadows
and memories.
Time was passed
moments exploded
by the rain of bombs.
At nightfall
I don’t brush my dreams
any more
At nightfall
I don’t care for the
wandering sun any more
At nightfall
I leave the frightened
moon in the sky
to shelter under the
ground.
I am neither a woman
nor a poet any more.
Night by night
more and more,
I feel real.
Like bloody sound of
alarms,
Like roaring anti-air
crafts,
Like falling bombs and
rockets,
that turns the ruins
and ashes
Into the eternal
reality;
I feel night by night
more real
and older
so older and real that
in the mirror
I see nothing anymore
but a range of empty
chairs.
Oh, isn’t it enough?
isn’t it enough?
What does everybody
need
more than a loaf of
bread
a quite night
and an armful of bleak
love
for giving up and being
satisfied
with the quiet of
shadows
and memories?
Pen Pal poem
We never met each other.
I never saw you in pyjamas,
brushing your teeth just before sleep,
and I never got a glimpse of your soaking head
out of the shower, when you’d yell:
“I forgot my comb, will ya please give it to me?”
I never saw you limbering up
early in the morning
or at night, when you were snoring
and water was oozing out
from the corner of your lips.
I never had the fortune
to iron your shirt
or serve you a bowl of hot soup
and cover you up at night
when you caught a cold.
In the cold of midnight,
our bodies never made each other warm
but, imbued with fabulous lies and dreams
our letters and poems
more beautiful and innocent than pure truth
announced us husband and wife formally.
And our children were the love songs
immortal in the rains of bombs,
invulnerable to the curses of gods.
A woman’s desk
Can you find somewhere
for a woman's desk?
In the middle of the sea, for instance
where this boat needs only two oars
to sail into the sea;
or on a green branch
where this little bird will start singing
and learns flying from one branch to another
Can you find somewhere
for a woman's desk,
in the East or in the West
except but a home in which
a desk can be a coffin
a heavy burden to carry
on her husband’s shoulder?
That Dark Side of the Cities
They are the only ones
who are free.
They stay
on that dark side of the cities
where the most remote stones
rest on their bodies,
covered with dust.
When news is broadcast at regular times
by beautiful international women
wearing colourful clothing and gaudy smiles,
the dead hear nothing but deep silence,
as if all the international languages
are without sound.
Even when the bombs start to rain
on far and near cities,
they are safe in their eternal shelters
while their souls are suffering
from the long-lost dreams.
The only voice that reaches them
to shake their bones
is the tortured screams
from solitary confinement,
just like the graves
where the freedom is condemned to survival.
Posthumous poem: Memories of a dead woman from walking in her city
Of the fleeting world
I liked the sight of geranium pots
on window sills of houses
and the wind’s kiss on compulsory hijab
In search of my tresses).
I dearly loved
to walk under the raindrops
overflowing with hope of finding my lost half.
I hated the campaign posters for political
candidates
and the framed pictures in offices and banks
poking me in the eye like a nail
For,
they saw time as the footprints of kings and presidents.
I never tired of seeing clenched fists;
waves coming from the end of the sea, at times
to wash away the footprints of everything
but
freedom, peace and love
to color the life blood in the vessels of
death.
** hijab
/hɪˈdʒɑːb,ˈhɪdʒɑːb/
noun
noun: hijab; plural noun: hijabs
1.
a head
covering worn in public by some Muslim women.
o
the
religious code which governs the wearing of the hijab.
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