Reč dve o Borisu K., Avanture Borisa K


Reč dve o Borisu K
Boris K. — Prvi Gubitnik Fenomenizacije
U nekim zemljama vladala je Inkvizicija. U drugim je dolazilo do sumnjivih privatizacija. U državi Borisa K. došlo je do neobjašnjivih fenomenizacija. Fenomenizacija za Borisa K, čoveka bez stalnog zanimanja, beše tako nepredvidiva da mu nije preostalo ništa drugo no da se sa njom pomiri.
Upadao je u različita vremenska razdoblja bez korišćenja vremeplova. Nalazio se na najneobičnijim radnim mestima, a da na njih nije konkurisao. Prilagođavao se situaciji nalik igraču koji prelazi na drugi nivo u nepredvidivoj kompjuterskoj igrici.
„Šta sam ja bogu zgrešio da mi se to događa?“, pitao se Boris K. „Isti sam kao i svi drugi polukvalifikovani radnici koji se zanose idejom o jednakosti u Republici. Kao entuzijasta zanemario sam dalje školovanje zarad slepe vere u dolazak boljih vremena, onih u kojima će se saslušati i glas malog, običnog, bezimenog čoveka.“
Boris K. bio je spreman na najveću žrtvu da bi se taj cilj i ostvario. Kao jedan od zaslužnih učesnika, po završetku Revolucije, dobio je velike beneficije koje je sa gnušanjem odbio, govoreći da 14 15
se protiv takvih povlastica upravo i borio, te da bi prihvatanje istih bilo u suprotnosti sa njegovim uverenjima. Zadovoljio se poslom montera na traci za finalizaciju u fabrici automobila, gde je sav srećan radio po 12 sati dnevno, postavljajući retrovizore na suvozačeva vrata.
Jednog je dana dobio otkaz što je bila posledica uvođenja novih tehnologija i potrebe za štednjom. Tako su mu bar rekli, iako je dobro znao da iza svega stoji ono ultimativno zlo koje je polako ali sigurno izjedalo tkivo čovečanstva — profit. Odbačen poput istrošene baterije, praznog srca i očiju punih suza, preselio se iz skromnog ali uređenog stana u „dolinu gubavaca“. Ovo mesto dobilo je nadimak po stanovnicima, ne istinskim gubavcima, već očajnicima koje je zadesila sudbina slična Borisovoj i za koje se ne bi moglo reći u kojoj bi se od te dve kože bolje osećali. Stare zgrade, koje su se zbile u nepravilnom rasporedu, gde su živele nesrećne porodice, nisu bile od betona ojačanog čelikom iz Pitsburga, već od eko–cigle, sa izolacionim slojevima od azbesta, što je stanarima gotovo izvesno garantovalo rak na plućima. Kao da nisu imali već dovoljno nevolja u svojim životima.
U takvoj jednoj zgradi Boris K. našao je stan. Nije ga privukao oglas, već neobična pojava gazdarice koja je imala običaj da najtiražnijim novinama u gradu udara po glavama koje su izvirivale iz okolnih šahtova.
„Kao da ubija mušice“, mislio je u sebi Boris K, pogleda prikovanog za izmašćenu brojanicu. Frau Suzi, kako se gazdarica zvala, i Boris K. razmeniše samo jedan pogled i odmah se prepoznaše. Zalizavši sedu kosu, Boris K. upita za cenu. Frau ga odmeri prezrivim pogledom i otrese pepeo sa muštikle na bušnu cipelu. Boris K. je prkosno pogleda, na šta Frau, staračkim hrapavim glasom, reče:
„Ha!“
Beše to mantra koja je značila samo jedno, a koju je starica izgovarala u retkim prilikama. Boris K. voleo je starije plavuše sa stavom, te je rešio da svoju misiju započne baš na ovom nesrećnom mestu.
Misiju? Kakvu misiju?
Saznaćete.16 17

 

Mirror


I’m not ashamed
of inspirations, veins, and tendons of terrible snakes
I love stinking flies, heavy in copper
I love sick roses
It’s just a little thorn left on my cheek
and I have no allusions
and I have no illusions whatsoever
and I do not deserve relief
I ate a mirror from a counter of fifty young bunches
in someone’s stomach,
so my home became a little cramped.
I ate a motionless spider immortalized in cobwebs

I’m floating on a tray of a busy Belgrade street
in a deaf room
I was bent and hungry looking at the sky
from an ideal angle
behold, hands are peeling away in glass,
at an incomparable address restores faith
in the mortal covenant with innate signs

Here, my hands are quite a clear
Part of the speech on the other side of the sheet
she misspelt the right words,
he collected the blurred images
all that was spilt and collected
into one flashing point
between locks and secret places

after much effort and hard work
I managed to turn the mythical river
towards the old man from the beginning
that doesn’t get off track
he is alive, but he is away from home
whenever I pass by

You came out of yourself finally like a pigeon from a cage
and the symbolism of the tiny sparks that disappear
I collect
sometimes absent sometimes
all around with irrepressible actions
emptiness, freedom of oblivion,
successful metaphors swallowed symbols
tamed snake, the foremother of small intestines
you shine a green light like a mythical image
there are many great secrets in orientation
and I play the game I found myself in

I drag toys behind me for people to hear
a flower came out of the way to pray to the god,
a sail, red, juicy like hell on a grill
The glassmaker rolls from conviction to the throat
between the heart and the abyss
his cheek dropped, a glint in his speech
which house is burnt in flames? – I see its reflection already growing in the stone

I switched roles with the one I hunt
now it’s lurking inside and luring me inside
help squeeze my lips to miss me
close my door so my days don’t go away
toss a grenade to slow them downs
so they didn’t see us go through the mirror.

For every little candle


 

From Bosnia without love

With love arrived

The Cretan Bull

Like a witch of wishes

Those skyish strati

Astartan

As an avalanche on

The back of a Judas boulder

A running mountain of

Revealing ripples

Revealed elbow dances

And sweet tongues

Poor Jago!
You were not God’s favourite!

But you turned

Feverishly

Fearlessly

On the

Favourite

The unfortunate victim of

Wrath

 

Oh, Ishtar!

Your goodness for my

Blameless eyes

Was too much

And whoa! From here?

All the way to

Marathon

With charismatic nostrils aflame

Dust flying

In my face

To blind and mute

 

 

For every little candle

To all big stars

You all witness

My demonic inscription

My mind and heart and soul

In all forms, intelligible

In all grammar and prose

And languages

My writings of dark

For the light

To get within

That I am still here

As alive as ever

As eager as ever

As big as ever

As unapologetic as ever

A voice forbids arrest

I have to go on

Through the moonlight

And on till the starlight

Is sunlight

To pressure on

Release the tyrannosaurus

In me

And the brethren

One by one

I am alive

Rejuvenated

Reoriented

In the last grip of humanity

To blow the iron curtain

For deceit

For the light

To see the dark

Like I had been

Before terminal

Delivered off my lines

Hercules blows away the bonds

The bonds intended

For hell

But sent for newness

Is it impossible?

Ever dynamic their pants

Aflamed with cold

Killing instinct

A sword of foreign death

Skulls crushed

Necks sliced

Fingers roasted

And complete

Swallowed with glee

On negotiation

Their instituted intentions

We are not humans

For them

We relinquish waste

Ours

And bathe  in theirs

We nauseate

Our aptitude develops

With Plato’s guiding

Cutting our innocence

We shudder

And become desert sand

Yet there is no red light

Plato guides us on

Recreating us

But we are humans

We do it humanely

And not as

A cult.

 

From the broken lands

Of tormented life

And children in blood

They came to give

Some rest and some food

To empty bowls

They had their full

They had their fill

With holes in the plates

Of benignity

 

Bastards


xfxfBastards,
I remember nothing but November
so crazy half-awake
as lukewarm blood prepares to wake up
unusual blood flowing
moving in light attacks
eventually a fairy-tale bird
at the end of the Nordic Twilight
in the end, remember and remind others
when they are polluted by human lowness
when they are angry with humanity
finally, the silver slide on the waves distorted in balance
you become a symbol that shines with disgust
my eyes are hard
in the flash voltage
under the pressure of reverse gaze
theatre with empty chairs
increasingly unrestrained performances
2
Bastards
between sweat and draft
when they start to stall
basins against the walls
infuriated in the pulmonary bush
gag reflex rainwater down a rusty steep gutter
with the first breath
hellspawn without race and address
the smell of rotten mouldings plunges into empty vision
humanity needs a sense of smell
and tickle the restlessness, the fire, and the torment
it is time to make the sauce among the cramped rooms
in the midst of the sweeps and receipts
they ripped the star from the power meter
they get dead, they die alive
in sleep and on alertness, like never
3
let the bassoon come back from the basement and the horns of plastic drums
let the restored bassoon sing
into trenches, tanks and cannons
to iron around our own bones
so we can forget about them later
the sun and moon will be close to our eyes
in the day
indented
torso
in a spider’s
heart
forgotten sizes
fb3dQuotes54
all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

Happy to share…


My three poems, The Key Sum Of All Things, Endlessly Burnishing Wildflowers and Dervish are published in
Our Poetry Archive V-5 No.11: FEBRUARY 2020: Is Now On-Line!

https://ourpoetryarchive.blogspot.com
https://www.facebook.com/groups/OUR.WWWW/.

 

https://ourpoetryarchive.blogspot.com/2020/02/leila-samarrai.html?spref=fb&fbclid=IwAR29ndw21VNIqdgCe0iTdqPdcy-B7r-gx-E60Wz4Fj0ikiM9Ure6KnBZaIQ

 

Untitled

Endlessly Burnishing Wildflowers, a poem by
LEILA SAMARRAI was born on October 19th, 1976 in Kragujevac, Serbia. She writes poetry, short stories, and plays, her work largely containing the motives of fantasy and humour. Her debut collection of poetry „The Darkness Will Understand“ won the First Prize of the competition organized by the Student cultural centre of Kragujevac in 2002. She has had her work published in numerous local magazines, both in print and electronic form. Some of her notable works include the collection of short stories „The Adventures of Boris K.“ by Everest Media and (as co-author and critic) „Poetry Against Terror: A Tribute to the Victims of Terrorism Kindle Edition“. Her works were published in Serbian, Hungarian and English. She has won numerous awards for her written works, including the third place as a representative of Serbia for the aphorism „Stars and Us“ of the „Beleg“ competition and three separate awards in the „3-5-7 – A Story in a Moment“ story competition, as part of the „Helly Cherry“ competition, both in 2011. She currently lives in Belgrade with her five cats. Samarrai uses absurdist and the elements of farce in her plays. She favours surreal short stories, horror fiction, satire and humoresque, enjoying the vaudeville style of structure interwoven with the style of “Pythonesque” stories. Her goal in literature is to weave fantastic realism into horror fiction, as well as utilizing magical realism and the surreal.

Untitled

Requiem for a mosquito, may your spirit rest upon these toxic fumes


1

I love your milk colour, nearby madhouse,
I love your fatuum traitors cry,
To Now or Once, to hellholes or sneak thieves
Which summons the harlots of Time.

Pull the drains, sewer bunnies.
may your spirit rest upon these toxic fumes,
I love your shiny little bumps, your aggro,
Simply… I love your shaft.

The Belgrade on Krnjača*
screwed up its sewage line to
contaminate the crime scene.
with raw sewage.

The Wraith will come dragged along the floor
Belgrade, you are an asylum in the open river
while sailing on a burning duvet

2

To Kunst for homeless god
to Happiness and vindictive mosquitoes
to calls of local bar hopping slut.
and fine Sers missing communal apartment.

Spraying for mosquitoes!
are you my executioner?
you’ve disarmed the vengeful mosquitos
itching
cursing
a short-tempered star
a lightning strike
frost in dictionary

And soon.. all these years
seem just like a blink
of the bite.. inseminated…
earthquake!

Don’ t get nervous phantom of the
birthplace shores.

Requiem for a mosquito
and soon, your music shall come,
some slacker roadkill shall come,
plastic heart shall soak it all in.

Like ammonium nitrate…
3
To add mincemeat out of the filthy Ser
mix mixture carefully into medicinal
soup
For Hannibal.

Poke and doodle
In the pokey, up to the rectum river,
then
plant yourself like a squatter

And… put some ice in the urinals.

 

*Krnjača (Serbian CyrillicКрњачаpronounced [kř̩ɲat͡ʃa]) is an urban neighborhood of Belgrade, the capital of Serbia. It is located in Belgrade’s municipality of Palilula. (source: Wikipedia)

Returned to sea


The symbol of “the sea” is similar to that seen in the beasts rising out of the sea and out of the earth (Revelation 13:1, 11). It designates origination, representing the realm of the earth

Also, the fish is a symbol of baptism and as such, an appropriate symbol for Christians to adopt. A fish symbolizes fertility, feelings, creativity, rebirth, good luck, transformation, health, abundance, serenity, intelligence, happiness, strength, and endurance.

Authors note

***

Returned to sea, through realms
beyond the sea,
whatever city you may be in,
the shalop reach the side
as died upon the tide

of awakening fire
why fly with one wing
Of flowers budded newly
Among the pirates, among the shepherds
A ram goes bleating.

How to walk on one leg?
Conjure thee to linger in the multitude arose
how much of the world can be seen
with half an eye
about their brows!

Strange ministrant of abrupt thunder
behind which hill does the man cease to be
Dread opener of the feathery whizzing
far and wide
on which the field a beast remains
A yielding up, through the water straight,

Let them die everyone who isn’t us,
the empty souls vibrated with the howling
of thousands of kinds of monstrosities

They wrapped their miserable greens in dazzling colours
to cool bosom mocking under your shore – out of memory
unconscious did they embalmed your heavier, sweet grief above

Why live with one hand
how to walk on one leg
They mock you
But we will cry with you
don’t worry about those devilish smirks

To tunes forgotten,
Once more been tortured with
the towering horses
in due time aloud we cry beckon’d you to silence
a kiss on the cheek,

To melting one eye fish
to earth the dower of still waters
and white did lave that all those gentle lispers
to tinge the salt tear syren shores
don’t worry about those damn ridicule

No matter what city you were in,
returned to sea, through realms beyond the sea
return to the sea
what kind of land it is for which one must die for

Don’t worry about the red nights in the east
don’t worry about those devilish kingdoms
don’t worry about anything

 

all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

Poems from my Travels – The curse of Helena of Troy


1

By the Shield of Heracles and

the four realms of lesser Asia-lands  and

as for the unseen rocks this it fell not unto me to say

But swear, Traveller,

On the turves from the horses’ hoofs

In the great battle that is to come

In danger, I am, and in the courage that welcomes danger.

That all the poison ran about

And many little deaths are to be written

dismayed with aghast and the dread,

in the legend for the unseen rocks,

describing stop by stop

2

Each numerous passages take on cargoes

of magic as an ear of wheat from this island

and there are numerous sugar legends as well

. Traveller, from hence may you unbind, give your detail

Are you of the Boetian heroines who gave birth to demi-gods or heroes.

Or a mortal passenger?

First Priam came, lest the din of to meet this madman’s rage;

They’re loud and long

Where serpents neverending sleep

Clothe me naked, devotee with naked feet

Undress me here and named I will spring up  – Quick.

Alas, you came down to me through curtains

Such a lit onward in such a way as not

Abrupt a lion in his den for you are more skilled in your hides than Paris,

as ghost, tricky and I, tricked out, greatly daring…

And thus I see you, may I see you

As whatever lurks beneath your hood and long hair.. ah!

The goddess, bide not, I rarely have seen

A fervid woman, for you, are a woman,

Traveller’s image of vesper lips through midmost azure..

eyes.

Tell me more about my dress, woman

Deftly now and girdle your loins,

just look at my cheek that felt a tear, a kiss,

To Lesbos, for through the poisoned wine will be

no the maid off mine

Will hail your beauty more worthy than my prize.

We must hide you for Paris is looking always

Looking always to awake a vision of love and beauty

bearing their way

Traveller, The straining doves fly fly to the nostril

where under the scented fume of tortured fame

Whisper at the future in the passions past. Yet

in my despairing and in my boredom..

Purge through all my corporal pores

And stuck adherent in sword and tye

Supply my every want.
3

And the Traveller answered her:

Is it too much to ask that, Helena?

To supply each cringy whore

To groop with grace every needy harlot

To owe my being to this blessed night

One claps my wings for eternal travel

I fire my muses to harder joys

For deeds and arms prepare, for Troy

I taught for a hero and made a boost of

my travels  that grow supreme

For through your boredom queen life’s tides renewing bring

The bucolic

wreathless

the vigor of heart bewitches

the Prince

the Troy

the man

the woman

a clearer picture of the untrodden shore

I seek everything but passion

mood all they lie and appease you

but the Traveller obeyed more apt command

From sable on to roaring roar

This passion is searing me!

From out of the dainty heather in the country places

like master sailing with oar and boat

Only brood and willows

Fire and the windows

The true word of welcome in Ur Nammu’s ziggurat

Lone let it stand, the true word

of the first pirate of Tortuga

of the Spanish fleet,

feared not storm this grand ship

in the magic chariot through

The clouds

To reap advantage

As good bosoms are found aboard were set ashore,

and the vessel to the spirits and to the gods I made!

Yes.. – I, rode the caravan roads

and wide Arabian deserts

from the mighty Sheba[1]t

to the magnificent Gaza which they ruled.

I drank ginger ale with the Queen of Sheba,

bringing her spices and herbs from Cana

and many a treasure by sea, from India….

(Traveller continues to ramble..)

4 Helen

Traveller,

talents into jewels brimming with Sheba’s gemstones

Drink your fill, join me

In this aweful council

Of bright pure water from life’s poisonous chalice

there won’t be any war under that sky

Hear me at once, for I am a messenger from lust

And that ‘s enough, for lust is vanity, I, Helena,

Selfish in her beginning as her end

Seal delicious saffron lips yet

their covetousness and the extremity they were blazing

my temper to made me venture with ghostlike ladies like you!

Whose tempter’s tongue never knew nor rust tarnish

Burn Troy cry in anguish

smooth floored maddening spirit

Will not escape as captives

With kingly scourge to lust that stings

Tomorrow, musick the fair of wars

Inherit your sick palaces

And thus in virtue I, sea sundered harlot

Bathe the bare naked along with ministers of tears

Long must elapse by the plunging night

Beautiful beautiful Paris in his manly might

Gaze at last I yield to be caressed, come Death…

Such good wives throw their good spouses

Sages and arts and the next rattling dice

But I? – never.   Her dress stains with a sterams of blood…Her dagger…

 

5

I told this tale of Gudea’s powerful teaching

to Chaldean descendants

in the city of Gerrha,

where I did trade,

to which the Gerrhan folk ridiculed me.

The moment they were about to stone me out of the city,

I turned and raised my arms, telling them this.

– Descendants of Chaldeans,

the masons of Babylon,

you who have torn down the temple of Solomon:

in two hundred years you will be wiped from the face

of the earth in pools of blood. – with cries,

by the curse of Helena

for not paid his mental worship first

for not paid fort the remnants of Troy

I brought to you as a gift

Thus dishonoured and dismissed the lady seer

Helena, a slaughtered bird on even feet

Arose to the greater glory

Her lips with water first bedewed I did not

For I was a Traveller, not a man or a woman

The sacrifice decreed in greater good sacrifice ordain

Now Helen is a Traveller, too!

how small this name to you to what you now know

she picked up her cards and counters

she never saw the city of whose fate I sang

if such a city ever existed

Calm and enthusiastic; tired, but not depressed

an Obelisk its Shade arise

and depths of despair remain

—restless at the night.

In breeches freely lies

how can I get a night’s rest, you ministers of disturbed mind!

She killed herself and thus she saved Troy

And prince Paris had started afresh!!

On jarring matches turn

On her needful twirls

To conquer the Traveller’s dapper waist to ranting Dame

In danger, she was, and in the courage that welcomes danger.

 

As I said this, I vanished and hence missed seeing their astounded faces. I convinced myself of my own prophecy when I returned to the massacred city, sometime around ninth century

To this, the ghost of Traveller went ablaze with bright light. He howled and announced victoriously – I ground Babylon to dust!

[1]The capital of the ancient kingdomHadhramaut, Hadhramout, Hadramawt or Ḥaḍramūt (probably “Death has come” or “court of Death”)in Genesis 10:26 and 1 Chronicles 1:20 in the Bible. Hadramaut was where exotic goods trade took place.

Poems from my travels 2 – Jerusalem


As I crossed my hands, leaning towards the scroll and gazing into the gelded ring on his left hand, adorned by cameos.
I met a furious passenger knight who slammed the pitcher of mead against the table.
‘A bloody mess’
while descending down the stairs of the tomb with a lit torch.
You messenger who mounted upon white tombs
with no desire to do evil but good,
the history of your work may explain my faults
and deeds and strength to fulfil
how I act in hostile daring heat,
had vowed to treat my enemies as harlots with splendour art.
Of tombs and shields and gentle ear
escaped by strange occurrences to be long live forgone
to meet no one but you, yet further on your way, where art thou going?
Traveller, why mount the weary soldier’s cold corpse,
for this cavern sake that my bones hold?
I travel to blaze all who bears a mortal shield
’tis exposed my poor unfortunate, afflicted,
I best for whatsoever in the world I found
a captive as I am, usually they crave in graves from that,
to add another visit to the dead seed by herbage dukedoms,
I long to see the things attempted that never bleed.
Then go ask the tombs’ gallants, not corpses speed,
O daughter of Samarra, they reeked of rottenness,
as my valour was ill-fated, not a heart has remained in this dead body
and my casket of a noble form packed up with silver
and the caskets were surrounded by massive, bare stones.
One of the doors led to the secret chambers.
Try to pay your debt through that part!
“But what has happened to you?”
Wide-gaping lion of Judah towards a canal of Divinity
drowned in the woe of burning adamant,
next to a blue shield depicting a menorah
there lie the corpses, like thoughts I loathed,
they rot below the great ball of fire,
while one more favoured higher placed SHOOTING STARS
on the crystal pavement beneath Mount Zion’s.
Here Siege has ceased, irreparable blustering vote
Arabian Googles are… up for proffer or if in my rising
I seemed called by the tar of my throbbing leaves,
for such another field, her name was Via Dolorosa
surrounded by olive branches.
Simplified 5-Step Approach to mesenteric blood flow
swing with Cross of Lorraine from trenches,
the hollows of erstwhile eyes are filled
with mindless thirst an acorn cup in light and shade.
Ooze, like tears, trickled down them in thin streams,
or was it, perhaps, blood?
Swaying on the scorching Sun.…miserable wretches, goodness gracious I died! ~
For bold to rest by fate arriving in the sore tide there,
my captive arc, Isis, Osiris maimed my brute shield,
my hauberk, my gaunt, the half-clothed hauberk alone,
the dreadful voyage, the dreadful for the penny of hazard;
as for the honour of Charon’s boat aforesaid and impregnated form in the air,
go ask amid a dune.
O daughter of Samarra, through the forest highs
nothing is so beautiful than thirsty lips enemies stranded ashore
bid them farewell with gunshots.
And for my spirit – mild voice persists,
capable of rejuvenating hearts and souls,
for fire burst among the bare castle stones,
swallowed the black crows and toothless witches,
and then died down the same moment
Ask how I aflame the dreaded fire to ingle and ash.
Fire tongues of my enemies a huge bonfire of spirit consists.
Geysers of blood are bursting out of the flaming masonry.
I treat my enemies like harlots,
for the devil follows those on Earth
who build their churches in graves, dust and blood.
Ask how I act, burned by the sun,
the ancient rage I bore in my heart,
the wrath of the gods from the beginning of time,
through the centuries brought to the boiling point,
a wooden statue of an angry Arab god
shaped by blows and insults, by time itself.
Yet sometimes I stepped away,
dismounted and threw open
an expensive canvas before me,
and sometimes I ran out of breath.
I fell to my knees, facing the hellish building
of the Mameluke ruler Baibars, whose symbol was a Cheetah.
I believed that if I were to touch the illusion,
the dream will dissipate and I will again be at the battlefield.
Maybe even in front of the Lion gate itself…
Ask, a spark of surprise in her eyes –
I drank ginger ale with the Queen of Sheba,
bringing her spices and herbs
from Cana and many a treasure by sea, from India.
I broke bread with ancient Chaldeans
who taught me the secrets of science.
The magical force rules over the wicked jokes,
the learned Chaldean is sworn and ordered to vengeance.
If this all isn’t a dream, I can hardly wait to tell God of all of this nonsense
And before you go, may a powerful word shake up everyone’s hearts,
and let the famed cities weep in despair – for the devil had come to Jerusalem!
The holy arm of the Lord cannot touch that tale – I mock you– but only the devils!
The devil, satyr, the shaitan and
may black foreboding link the passages instead of sentences.
All of the trees around Jerusalem had been long cut.
Days collide and go by, shackled by the thick adamant of swelter.
I breathe through my pores, bleed with the desert stones.
The hills of Judea crumble and get washed away in stuffy, grey dust.
But I remember a cannonade and explosion of a force unleashed
as I squint under the heavy, blinding light
I remember…everything…every drop of blood…with nostalgia.
And not to be misunderstood – this is hell.
***

all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

edited by: Obinna Eruchie

www.allpoetry.com/Obinnex

https://www.poemhunter.com/obinna-kenechukwu-eruchie/