دخول
تسجيلThe Child Martyr
Feb 11, 2021 02:42 PM Feb 11, 2021 02:42 PM
For you, I write letters, The others would be haunting me, I hurried to the well to whisper: It was a fast meeting Like a bullet buried, through a bat, into the soldiers' ribs. It was a slow meeting Like a mother's tear As she, preparing travel food For the one born by the frontiers, Whose birth certificate is full of worries. All the overcoats are too large for him, Yet, it is said that he's worn an overcoat, This is doubtful, For he's never been obsessed With an instinct to take off his country. I'll gather all those bloods Still traveling… Lest I should say that Our descriptions are but kindred. Some difference is there between us, It is the wound, oh my companion, To which I am an echo.
الكاتب: فليحة حسن
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