Spare Flower
The African night is beautiful,
In fact, it is divine’
Says the lady, visiting Iraq.
So I announce
I am the one leaving with your ignorance,
With minimum skin and a fractured soul.
The city is an adjective
And I have only my words.
This life eliminates the vocal paths from your being.
There is only departure
And my name was fitted to me.
I became the trustee of verse,
The spare flower;
The one talented in what has not yet been written.
No.
It never was
And never will be
That I form poems for you,
Grow them inside you,
Or write them in coercion.
So beat as you wish.
I am done with living in denial
I choose another life.
Madam,
my bed and the graveyard of my joy;
I crave with my longing the scent of water
but its stench pushes me away
to the gloom of the snow of Afyon,
the coughing of its chimneys,
the doubts of its elderly’s stumbling steps,
and squeals of the bones of trees
.
Translated by Dikra Ridha
Afyon is a town in the mountains of Turkey; it is where the poet was exiled.
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It is published in (ScreaminMams) magazine march 2016
© Copyright 2016, by Faleeha Hassan. All rights reserved under the Copyright laws of the United States of America and international copyright agreements. No portion of this book maybe reproduced in any form, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author. Email: d.fh88@yahoo.com