by Suhrab Sirat, translated by Claire Carlotti
I am the night; my soul, my gaze, my dream are the worst wounds
While in the shadowed mirror, my lips brush against pursed wounds.
Autumn bleeds through each season, my Libra upsets Sagittarius
And the arrow strikes Scorpio, releasing venom from burst wounds.
The bull, weary and mad, will shake my Earth, which his horns cradle.
This heart, stuck, is my donkey, crippled by unnursed wounds.
I have no sky in which to place my star, it drowns in dark;
I have no country, no land to make a grave for these cursed wounds.
Daddy leaves me dust and blood in the place of bread and water;
My school, which grew first words, now breeds first wounds.
Passion, logic have faded, just grey shadows in the fold
Of spirits, weakly dreaming, submitting to rehearsed wounds.
My name, my faith, my memories, even my words are scarred;
From beginning to end of this journey, I have always traversed wounds.