Wednesday, March 21, 2007

Iraq War Grief Daily Witness Day 45

A woman cries as she waits to claim the body of a relative, killed in a mortar attack on Monday, outside Yarmouk hospital morgue in Baghdad, March 13, 2007. The attack killed two persons and wounded 15 others, police said.

REUTERS/Ali Jasim (IRAQ)


Bangladesh II

by Faiz Ahmed Faiz

translated by Agha Shahid Ali


This is how my sorrow became visible:

its dust, piling up for years in my heart,

finally reached my eyes,


the bitterness now so clear that

I had to listen when my friends

told me to wash my eyes with blood.


Everything at once was tangled in blood—

each face, each idol, red everywhere.

Blood swept over the sun, washing away its gold.


The moon erupted with blood, its silver extinguished.
The sky promised a morning of blood,

and the night wept only blood.


The trees hardened into crimson pillars.

All flowers filled their eyes with blood.

And every glance was an arrow,


each pierced image blood. This blood

—a river crying out for martyrs—

flows on in longing. And in sorrow, in rage, in love.


Let it flow. Should it be dammed up,

there will only be hatred cloaked in colors of death.

Don't let this happen, my friends,


bring all my tears back instead,

a flood to purify my dust-filled eyes,

to wash this blood forever from my eyes.


6 comments:

RubDMC said...

for peace

anniethena said...

For peace

I witness

Wasim said...

for peace

Wasim said...

Little Father
by Li-Young Lee

I buried my father
in the sky.
Since then, the birds
clean and comb him every morning
and pull the blankets up to his chin
every night.

I buried my father underground.
Since then, my ladders
only climb down,
and all the earth has become a house
whose rooms are the hours, whose doors
stand open at evening, receiving
guest after guest.
Sometimes I see past them
to the tables spread for a wedding feast.

I buried my father in my heart.
Now he grows in me, my strange son,
my little root who won't drink milk,
little pale foot sunk in unheard-of night,
little clock spring newly wet
in the fire, little grape, parent to the future
wine, a son the fruit of his own son,
little father I ransom with my life.

moira said...

peace

Shakina said...

for peace