Poem of the week: Solitude is poor … by
Olha Kobylianska, translated by Olha Rudakevych
Solitude – its power,
The very thought of solitude
A very painful image
and idea
Running most of us, a fearful grip
Shuddering with a pain endless;
Indescribable pain and uncontrolled tears
Hands running to wipe all pains,
All walls silent and echo
Nonstop and reverberate
reaching ears and unable to redress.
A forest, lonely and walled
with thin trees, only rustle,
a murmur, who hears except
walls damaged and water seeping
amidst peeping,nodding plants.
A sight of deer, blood oozing,
Unable to run, fear striken,
Seeks asylum where, it still seeks,
Only amidst minimal silence
Stemming out of gun shots.
Shots and solitude
Always fearful but inescapable.
No comments:
Post a Comment