The Portrait and 3 other poems
From silent ruins, a harrowing scream exposes patriarchal structures, historical trauma and…
Read more →Evening's rigid face, a dark stroke; souls hold shadows as murdered land's footsteps inexorably approach.
This evening, its face rigid
as though it had had a stroke.
A large owl burrows deep into its steamy air,
our souls hold the soft darkness when
each one of us becomes
an invalid turned stiffly to his bed.
We remain sitting together,
incapable of getting any farther.
Only the footfall of someone
approaching from the murdered land.
Only the infinite kingdom when
you can’t stop anyone from a simple pain.
Does a raped sixteen-year-old girl
build a hymn of the world
where living is a flamboyant metaphor?
Just this evening,
blacked like he yin half of the symbol
where death can go on proclaiming its vanity.
Walls of our world, where are you?
The evening takes whatever comes drifting in.
Aimless, I prowl through reports about justice.
All I have is a face, rigid and helpless
as though it had a stroke.