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Two Poems: I Dream in the Language of Funerals, Scream

Two Poems: I Dream in the Language of Funerals, Scream



In the language of a city
inseminated with fallen teeth and
broken bones.

I dream in the language of dead.

I dream:
my mother’s poems resemble
the dark blotch on my left temple.
a green horse
kneels beside the body of
a dead boy.
a rat nips at my only letter
addressed to the wings of Gabriel.

An idyllic dream falls in the chasms
of a curfewed night,
it is slit open by razor blades
under the derisive eyes of drunk

I dream:
a woman losses her wedding ring
in the proximity of huddled army vehicles.
an abandoned pair of shoes in
a nameless cemetery
collecting the rains of spring.


Scream, Scream, Scream
In the dungeons where your
past has been stitched with
steel wires.

Your identity needs a new
scream in the void to
confirm your existence.

around the maps
where massacres dance in
colorful costumes
where the snow of ashes
reiterates itself
and falls on the bald
heads of the prisoners.

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My mother’s scream
sounds like a flower on
a martyr’s grave
she screams of blood on her
prostrated forehead.

When it snows
a letter,
addressed to the spring
is confiscated by the night soldiers
the syllables are skinned,
throttled and
nailed to the wall like a
map of the lost civilization.

till the spring
of all seasons hear you.

(These poems were published in the September 2020 print issue of Mountain Ink.)

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