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Dark Marble


After all these seasons,

And year cast after year,

Here I am waiting for you, grandmother,

Waiting for that punishment

that is stronger than the storm’s sting.

There I take off my face as I fervently turn to the nook,

My head between my blackened hands

And my clothes shabby and cold.

She will come now

She will come in a while,

But the moon …

The rotten fruit

hanging in the night

dimmed in my coat.

Here I am in the ancient portico

My hands are clasped

My feet brush the emptiness

A destitute student

Who becomes old every time she treads on the doorstep.

O grandmother

After all these seasons

And year cast after year,

Where can I get the chain of stories that spill at the hour of your happiness?

How would the morning whiff

the smell of hot bread?

How would it bear the countless lists of advice that are heavier than my school bag?

O kind-hearted grandmother

The heart is a splinter under the shirt

But how a splinter

when it has yet to reach its seventh year?

Lies are the wisdom of the young

What need I to tell you

So you would realize what a child I was?


Translated by Omnia Amin

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