A Poem Of A Chechen Girl
My soul is married to fire.
Black is a bandage to my lips and breath.
I’m keeping the bread near my heart - an explosive –
You sowed in my rocky earth, - stroking it with my fingers
Like the dead breast of a young husband.
No eyelash, no teardropp
Will fall from the iron pupil. My braid
Is tied to the wrist of Allah. I’m keeping
A piece of rock near my heart, - stroking it with my fingers,
Like the forehead of my dead child.
I’m a hostage of my hostages. A hostage –
Of this hall full of the echoes of applause,
Melted into the muffled roars of the bullets,
The bells mourning all over the rocks.
I’m keeping hatred near my heart, stroking it with my fingers,
Like the memory of my dead love.
Dead motherland, dead God,
The scream of the dead woman – you long for,
Is dead in me. My burden is buried into your plains.
Keep for yourself my bread – explosive,
A piece of a rock, the hatred – taken out of my heart.