We don’t usually get inspired by the monotony of life. We rarely get inspired by the ordinary. But I think, when we do, when we finally glance the beauty of/in the ordinary, it becomes a habit: A habit so hard to escape.
In this poem, I try to capture that beauty; The beauty inspired by the ordinary. the uniqueness of being a women, just an ordinary woman. The glamour of death. The illusion of continuity that offers us the drive in life. And lastly, the beauty of love, of course.
This is the first time I try to translate one of my poems to English, so I hope you like it…
I write you on ashen… I read the virginity of your love in my poem So you turn to this drop that falls from the sky Or to a grain of sand that falls through my fingers. I attest you on ebony And I know that life is death to me, when in love with you And that winter is summer, And spring is my end… But in your smile I read my traits. Now, blaster my soul… Desire me and long for me in all thousand ways And all thousand passions, and all thousand feys… Love me with the extremism of hatred and slavery And capture me in the sinned prison of solitariness. Me. This is how I love; With the pleasure of fanaticism, and the living of death. Me. I heard your voice in the lack of words, I perched your whispers at all times. Me. I touched, and effaced, I discerned, squalled, believed, throbbed, hated, and plunked… Me. I don’t love. I never will, As the sound of love is tender, chanted by the soul, And my soul today is lost… I am not aware if it’s lost in death Or if the seasons of life have it buried in leth Oh…Oh…the enslavement of that soul… Me. I. I am a poet, And the pages are not enough to take my words, So I made my body be the shelter for these words. I. I am a lady. I am a female. I am a female master, and the master of that soul… I am all females, and the voice of this life… I am not aware; I am not certain where I read these words. Was it in your eyes? Or was it on my body? Or was it on the blank pages, that I, me, have read these words?