Poetry from The Literary Review
| Earth misses its Spring No grass on the surface no gull on the water The last woman returns from the house of springs No bracelets on her hands no henna on her palms No sandalwood to be burnt in braseros Let open the kingdom of the soul and say: Earth! Plains! Horses! All come home! All these seasons are huddled in my blood. Translated from Tahar Bekri's French version
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