Summer of Quiet
Plow the summer of quiet.
Wait for music to choke
in the sun’s throat.
Get a hideout ready for the keys
of the bruised soul.
Hanging onto the rain’s dawn,
flirting with the eyelashes of a sigh
napping on dream’s doorstep,
holding the hand of the tempted
fruit.Translation Dr . Salwa Goda
On the House’s Hip
We write on the house’s hip:
We are here.
We chew on the street’s loneliness
’til the alley turns
into a moon on the soul’s shoulder.
The wind’s wound…
you tell it like a secret.
Lightning drinks its glass,
and we drink down the question.
Sparrows soften the bitter cold.
What’s the point of staying…?
The olive tree left it to the windows
to tell what’s left
of the shouting inside us,
tossing it in the grinder.Translation Dr . Salwa Goda
