Ripening Grain

 Ripening Grain

By: Charbel Baini

Translated by Anne Fairbairn

Don't ask me, my beloved,

How the ears of grain ripen,

In spite of the sun moving away from my country,

In spite of the moaning songs of nightingales,

In spite of the fires of war and the exodus of people,

In spite of the lamenting cries of widows.

My country, oh my beloved,

No longer ascends towards the light

As flocks of doves ascend

To turn light into liquid -

Giving life to fields and hills

And feeding the running river - vines.

My country's been captured by thugs

Who cannot judge between the murdered and the murderer.


ليست هناك تعليقات:

إرسال تعليق