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Nicole Barriere in PlovdivLit


Exile  5.00 / 5

A thorn holds me tight

Stopping me from forgetting

The shirt of the dead

In the body of words

The trees of the way

Ghosts who don’t come back

To eat of the night

A branch of bramble

Death becomes a garden

I thought you were a clearing

Here you are in between intertwined branches

In the great sorrow of death

Our soon-to-be mother

The birds of lies

Among the dead

Of the hungry earth.

As tremble the word, so too tremble

The sound

And like birds in a foreign land

On the way off they go, walking with the dead.

Translated by H.Stafford


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