Bushra Elsnousi
I.
How much do you give in?
How much do you hold within?
I stand without a land
Pushing…
The pull that hems me back to comfort,
Drives me to discomfort—at the same instant—
And the poetry survives the rubbles.
II.
The world is not my home.
My heart bleeds for the streets
That know not the meaning of blood.
Not heaven nor hell—in their instructed narrative—
Satisfies the need that renews in passing.
There is a certainty too blue
Seen by the few who dare.
Don’t dare!
For your care shan’t be understood.
III.
I look through the stream.
I see her in me—
A part that only detaches,
As an awakening surpasses a dream.
What do I owe my surroundings
But my raw happiness
That does not inflict tangible harm?