After Arkaye Kierulf’s Horses Ta cre yo na silencio,cae aqui escondido el maga palabra;el tantiada de un nana y con el dolor,cae el maga cosas bueno, pirmi escondido;amo este el rason por el pensamientoque dificil el mundo; sino el deberas,necita sabe lang tu busca con el secreto.Ta cre yo na creada, cae este comotomada de agua. Y cae el verdadta depende na de aton pensadasi bastante para canaton...
This is how I remember. Wood planksnailed to wood planks to make an opening,And Love slipping into simpler planesFragments on the drying ground in the after-rainThe kamias fruit scattering green remainsand a red drapery of flowers in an afterthoughtA calling out, “Neneng! Neneng!”And the wide paved stairs still unplacedna un memoria of a childhood barefooted raceWe paused at the silhouette of...
I let those little green trunks of asparagusdie from too much waterAnd when I finally had the courageand mindfulness to say something,the sulterito vanished into the clinic Maybe tomorrow I could finallyexplain to him the conundrum of thirst—How similar we are to little stems of thornsGuilty of thirst at only the most desperate second,hiding behind thick-skinned carcasses,knowing at once we will...
THERE is a color clouded underneath the walls of the roomput a foot, shove the shoe or a toe underneath its cloakin a graying green refracting light, it is imitating a rippleand the outside is there merely serving to contrast and nothing moreit sits and says that there—that there, is an internality,there—outside, she points—you will see an inside Is this not where the light breaks and changes...
Saif speaks of the struggleTo the listening birds of the tugan,Words persuadingSheltered in frail nests.
Listen! The crescentAnd star calling azan.Once again, the birds returnLooking for twigsFor their nests.
The call is answered.The tugan is the final meeting place.
At dawn, the march beginsOn the path only the heart knowsTo the hills of warAnd freedom.
At the back of the truck,Guns clank againstThe metal floor. RocksAnd shallow cratersMock our short naps. “Assalamo alaykom!”Welcoming men smiling,Standing by the masjid.Kids waving at us,Forgetful of their white kupyasAnd beaded tondongsGathering dust. In my vision, Darapanan flashesParadise. The wrap aroundMy head removed,Loosened by swift, suddenWind. I hold my breath,To hear the chant of...
Your wounded bodyFits the old mattress.Your death corrupts time.Still is the hut, whileFighters stifle cries.In the forest, warGoes on, and the sunDries the wet puddles.Paradise awaits youNow. The peaceYou died for remainsA hopeful promise.Now we both returnBut part ways. I go backTo the forest. You, to Him.
The child’s eye peeks into the holesOne to anotherOf the masjid’s walls, innocentOf the terror of old nights,Of wounds and laments. The holes won’t showThe burning trees,No longer the lifeless scree.The smoke invisible,The spilled blood dries. Only the swaying leavesDew from yesterday’s rainFlash before his eyes. He seesAnd hears the river revived. As he glancesThrough the eyehole once more,He...
How are the sunsetsOf the old mujahid?Melancholy overThe dormant, rusted boloThe sole unyoung rifleSpangled with scarsFrom trenches forgottenGnaws at his bonesThe growing dark.When will the sunset everSlip out without notice? The last rays through curtainHoles before himStays his solitude.His dead war comradesMarch in single file.He hears bombsFlight of bulletsSmell of earthDamp grass again. But...
I. In their bamboo huts, where bulletsCould trace them, they tried to hideBehind their mothers’ bodies as ifThey could be infants in wombs again. Their mothers’ pleas the only shield,“Tama na! Mga sibilyan lang mi!”But foes remained unmindful—the earsDid not hear what the hearts refused to see. Like dominoes standing, the mothers fell.Blood ran to the edges of bamboo floorsBefore they even hit...