For a Safe Line in the Repair of the Winter of the Dead

By Khalid Khshan translated by John Smith

The grave is but a container of hopes,
The ugliest of it is:
you are with no friends
Lonely with no candle,
Unknown by the seasons
Unknown by others,
Standing before the morning glass facades,
Gazing in your face,
Never approached by delights.
I am the child,
The balcony flowers, forgotten by Mother s absence,
I am the child,
The line colocynth
And flies of my spelling mistakes in the poem mouth,
For the greenness of my soul,
For the lights over there,
They are your lights,
You are bees hive,
Pass by my soul, as deserted since the burial outset,
For the dead
And insults bigger than a window,
As we are trying to remember the pronunciation of our beloved names,
In our worn-out days,
Oh, but you, Raven will pass by,
And all the dynasties which are standing at our back door,
Disappoint its lovers,
I am leaning my soul at the tombstone of the people
Which was here
And say: happy Eid, oh, dead
In your last crush,
Who left us earlier,
They were more obscure,
I hear their screaming,
See their memory grass shine,
And the black fruitful branches of fear shade our limbs,
It was you, oh, grass our consolation
And guide
Graves are earthly rotten scars,
Where alien passes by alien,
Telling of a crowd of aliens at his back,
Carrying fire for the world warmth,
Loaded with retaliation,
Crossing the river with their losses,
Waiting no signal by anyone,
Pursuing far-off candle of salvation,
A candle as a blade,
So your winter can pass,
Turning to your other pictures,
Oh brave pain,
Sacrifice s face
I saw the killed s skull being revolved on the killer s,
- It was a mere family quarrel no more
-It was nonsense that was all said by me,
My friend
We are seasons of the sacrifice s blood,
Although we are laid at the bottom of earth.

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