On Mount Muhraka

Here where the laurel grows as magnificent trees, not as shrubs anymore, we heard our last tune for the very first time. Since then I listen to it alone. Your sobbing remained in the valley near Sheikh Abrek. Our joy was up on the mountain. We trampled spring flowers with our heavy love: the flowers will have their revenge someday, when they grow over us. The wind opened our souls like a secret last will.

And God's wild laughter was translated into the oily whine of a cantor. Not to see you ever again was manageable, as it turned out: look, we went on living. But not to see you the very next day was impossible, you see: we died.

Copyright World Poetry, Incorporated Sep/Oct 1996
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