Monday, July 31, 2006

Ghost on the road from Samarra

This is her poem
in praise of martyrdom.

This is the last, perfect
imprint of her foot.

This is her own bright, green thread
dripping from razor wire.

Words inscribe themselves
as if diamonds cut
nervous script from right to left
on smoked glass.

These are not my words.
This is not even my language.
How can I be expected to understand?

Why does she wait there,
pointing like that?
What can she want,
when she reaches out
to knock on my door?

Iraq, Lebanon, Palestine, when you look at the pictures can you tell which is which any more? Doesn't that say something in itself? This picture comes from Samarra. The man stands outside what used to be his brother's house. The picture comes from Dahr Jamail's excellent website, MidEast Dispatches.

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