Sunday, January 3, 2016

Soil spilt over

it was wasted, the soil that was meant to be hers,
most of the times metaphors start at land for those
peasants who keep to land
 never venturing out into the seas

why should they, our locals
used to the dust of the mountain,
to the blood spilling from its eye;
the water sources of doe and deer

when someone here dies, in lands not his
abroad, the women lament in black and weep
for the realization of the soil being split over
their body, so foreign. Turab Ghorbeh

A foreign soil, the women repeat,
moving their head, shaking it from left to right
to resist the urge to blame the returner from not returning
I do not nod, he thought that sand and soil are composed
of other bodies, human
is capable of making me silent, foreign or not was the turab, soil. 

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