Blijf altijd op de hoogte!
Schrijf je in voor onze nieuwsbrief en blijft altijd op de hoogte van het laatste nieuws over de Bildtse Aardappelweken.
A kilo of potatoes
Oh my land,
which soil should I plough
that doesn’t bear bloody potatoes?
giving them to armed soldiers,
and our children
are feeding off withered breasts
dreaming of clouds
shaped like potatoes.
Half a kilo of deboned lamb shanks
Like lambs we were taken to be slaughtered
our cracked bones are countless
so are the laments that drop dead as soon as uttered.
A handful of chopped parsley
I cannot feel the scent of za’atar, mint or parsley anymore.
Instead, I only manage the odour of loss.
A chopped clove of garlic
Our children’s bodies are mutilated…
A chopped onion
My eyes are arid,
I have no more tears to shed….
Bombs and bullets are sprinkled upon us
Like sulphuric flaming pepper.
You’d no longer find spices.
Nor your door,
Not even the lock…
Or your bed, your linen,
you’d not even find your children.
Fragments of rubble snap beneath your step
This is your rosemary –
Every flavoured step you take
inside your city.
Perhaps, I’d still find spices reminiscent of the innocent born
who, on their second day already know what their land has in store?
Which salt shall I
spread onto my palate
and not on these open wounds?
Will truth ever get to the surface
and spare us this relentless emigration?
*(Syrian spice mix)
Translated from the Maltese by Claudia Gauci