The poem that didn't want to be written
I was a witness of the war even before I was born
I was a piece of flesh trying to beat
in a womb threatened by anguish
We resisted the hunger of the violent
The rain erased the silence left by the bullets
We washed our nightmares in rivers tinged with blood
and we bit into the darkness made ashes
to face our fear of a new dawn
with death waiting
We saw mothers cry for their children
and wives who eclipsed the day with mourning in their clothes
Every night we clung to the protection of some gods
who still have not shown their faces
and we hide the dreams under the lintel of the door.
Our good luck horseshoe
was the blessed victim of a stray bullet
so that I could believe in omens
I saw the war before my birth
I knew my mother’s crying
and heard the crashing of my father's heartbeat
before they sung me lullabies
I saw the sour orange tree weep for its decomposed fruits
and serve as refuge
to those who under its branches
tried to erase the hell of their memories
And they ask why I do not write poems about the war?
They ask me, though I am still trying to silence the echoing voices of violence in my dreams
Translated by Mark Hoffman
