… as in a delirium I try to explain
the importance of playing the piano, but
I can’t sit in front of him,
afraid that in my blurred eyes he will see
puddles of overwhelming sadness…
The sounds of the sonata arch over this earth
where a woman’s life can be cut off like a flower,
like the dark flower of hope…
… God, where is all this junk coming from,
this poison like a black-as-death coffee?
Where do these flowers blossom?
Why do they do not become insane?
What tables do they beautify
through endless summers and winters…
Fly, black bird,
Across the bloody sky of the East,
Beyond the fog of November,
Where the smell of disgraced flowers
And the sharp claws of the gardener
Will never reach you…
Nadia Anjuman
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