I sit beside the lake,
Collecting blue tulips
Which float on the red water.
Smoke and dust has filled the sky.
Ashes with the wind come
And stick to my wounds,
From which, now and then,
A thick drop trickles
Down and down,
All way to the lake.
I caress the grass with
Three fingers, as my mother would have,
My wounds.
The soil smells like her,
And so smells the ash, of her.
Red clouds above, in the sky
And around, smoke and dust,
But I sit beside the lake,
Collecting blue tulips.
© Muntazir
Picture Credit
