by Suhrab Sirat, translated by Gemma Craig-Sharples

My lips on mine in the mirror, wounded
A comfortless kiss for my soul, wounded

His arrow pins me to poisoned autumn
And the year snags: seasons wounded

Earth trembles on the raging bull’s horns with
A hitch of heart, this heart, my heart, wounded

I have no country; I am no land’s man
I have nowhere while my star is wounded

My schoolwork dissolved into blood and dust
Seeps away where the paper is wounded

Our heads in the sand, we don’t need to think
Dead to the world for my spirit is wounded

Faith, language, name – all I am is a wound
Forever weeping, forever wounded