Antoine Cassar
english
Ċomb
Jixirfu minn taħt il-mejda, isorru
ftit ħwejjeġ, ftit larinġiet żejda, iġorru
lit-tifel bl-ors imħanxar fil-wejda, imorru
lejn l-għalqa għall-kenn ta’ ġol-bejta, ikorru
bil-frak tal-ħġieġ ħiereġ imħeġġeġ
mit-tifqigħa tal-moskea mejta.
Tixref minn ġod-daħna tajjar, tidwi
ħemdet żewġha wara l-istar, miksi
bit-trab qed jirtab u jiħdar, jikwi
demm binha fuq ksieħ il-liżar, li lanqas jibki
ma jiflaħ, la fommu ma jiftaħ
fil-kuritur ifur tal-isptar.
X’ħela ta’ ħin, x’ħela ta’ ħajja
x’ħela ta’ ħniena bla sliema titlajja,
mill-beraħ tas-sema, mill-wesgħa tal-bajja
bombi taċ-ċomb minn ġo tombla ġarrajja,
battalja battala bla tpattija tissajja:
duħħan ġo duħħan, tbajja’ fuq tbajja’.
Audio production: Literaturwerkstatt Berlin 2009
Lead
They come out from under the table, gather
a few clothes, a few extra oranges, carry
their boy with the headless bear in his hand, leave
toward the shelter of their hut in the field, are wounded
by the burning fragments of glass
exploded from the dead mosque.
She comes out of the cotton-like smoke, her
husband’s silence echoing behind her veil, covered
in dust turning soft and green, the blood
of her son burns on the cold of the sheet,
with no strength to cry, nor to open his mouth
in the overflowing corridor of the hospital.
Such a waste of time, such a waste of life
such a waste of pity relentlessly postponed,
from the open skies, from the breadth of the bay
bombs of lead from a long-threaded lottery,
a futile battle where revenge awaits not:
smoke in smoke, stains upon stains.