there is sadness between wooden cupboards
like dust, take it out to find it piling up again
slowly, over the counters in the house
where one slept, ate, thought
this is the extension of glory
that now the walls talk about bluntly
without need to seek advice from the inhabitant
the house talks, for this is not a cobweb
that can be blown out by being blown in
this is cement poured in, poured out
a few hours after dusk, all dust
the rooms talk well of their inhabitants
the rooms leave space for the clothes
piled, unworn, unwashed on the shelves
kept to cover up his bones in the winter
enough talk about the boy, the deaf
ears cannot do anything to one who hung
his smile by the door and went to school;
like yesterday, like tomorrow, like any other day
there will be a return that is set for later-
four months later, covered- iced
the boy. His smile will take care
of the house, of the mother, of the father
while the Quran plays in the room
the dates are distributed and coffee,
of course for the better,
for the bitter occasions.
No comments:
Post a Comment