Sunday, June 13, 2010
Ward is the third of those series of books related to the beloved. It is a book made of blood, like roses.
The author heard this poem read from a friend a long time ago. She was a poet and she passed.
The sense of exile still remains.
The last train has stopped at the last platform. No one is there to save the roses, no doves to alight a woman made of words. Time has ended. The ode fares no better than the foam.
Mahmoud Darwish from Fewer Roses. Translated from the Arabian by Munir Akash and Carol Forche