Afrasianet - Italian poet Sabrina Di Canio writes these poems from a position of bias towards man, as Gaza becomes a symbol of suffering and resilience, and war becomes a mirror of the loss of childhood, home, and peace. In intense poetic language, images that pulse both pain and hope, she presents texts that transcend space to touch the human experience in its deepest manifestations.
These poems were translated into Arabic by the Lebanese poet and translator Magda Dagher.
Mirage
Like a mirage on top of piles, broken bread, rubble, and shattered glass
Rivers of stones and tears of women that send cities from their deaths,
men are statues of salted houses like open graves.
In this maze of pain and death,
war doesn't make all this noise, even when the ground trembles, even when I scoop the sand with my teeth and dream of biting a piece of kunafa among the smoke flowers.
On the border, on the borders,
where the border is at the end of the road,
pains in the feet of those who have been exhausted,
whose footsteps have been pierced,
The queue of humiliation and sorrow is lined up,
like a line of neglected locomotives waiting for nothing.
Children in Gaza
Rusty meshshatter the blue of the sky into small perverted patches.
dollss Clocks over the rubble, and children Forgotten anemones in a glass glass.
Connection An ethereal, hidden thread, and crucified in the soldier's fists on the for eheadIn the embrace of a mother who calms fear,
in the damp dew, the explosion of uncertainty is confused, at a last glance rises, unfolds,
and intertwined, in the fabric of a conscience charged with intentions,
impossible a pulse
that folds the distances,
on the banks of my soul trembling with a rhythm of light.
Crystal silence splashes beneath the eyelids,
where the tales bloom and end, like breadcrumbs scattered in the forest.
In the grief of waiting
The slow step after acceleration is now faltering.
What is the use of a contract that does not conclude
Train does not leave
A ship that does not leave
A ship anchored in the harbor to eternity
Love does not bind hearts
The door does not open
Bread that is worn by mold
A shoe that does not fit the foot
A wave that does not rust
Wave that does not rust
Door that does not rust
A door that does not blow
A fly in a bottle of a dry knife that does not cut
A clock hand that does not spin, or a star that does not shine
What is the use of all this horror in the eyes of a child?
My father, I stumble in broken verses, and then...
I wait for you a million times with love,
like cobwebs, on a ship anchored in the harbor to the eternal door,
with my rotten bread and my shoes tight,
I watch the wave reced, the silent bell,
and the jacket, I release the captive fly behind the glass,
and hold a knife that does not cut for a time that has passed,
I cry for a star that does not shine.
