A poem by the Great Libyan poetess Samira EL bozaidi.
Translated by: Ma’moon zaidie.
In Tripoli
the bemoaning paradoxes
meet the pretended joy.
no one persuades me to write about hope, nor about the mysterious commandments of toleration.
I am writing the truth
the vicious reality,
its red eyes and ugly face.
the dusty roads of
grief,
the lost taste of everything. the excursions
in filthy places.
the mount questions,
my kids pile on my heart.
In Tripoli,
places can squeal alone
no passer-by would wipe the tears. while class obscenity
arrogantly traverse the streets.
On Facebook, everyone struggles to smile in a mendacious profile,
that may ease it a little,
but it won’t be
trivialized.
may the local matches be a tentative stampede
but they are also polluted,
politicians blight everything,.
as they did
in our glorious time.
In Tripoli
In Zawia street
where I was born and
in Bab ben ghashir
when the shells of Rexos
mellowed in our panic.
It was a vague
revolution,
the young died the elders smile in their chairs
the shops suck people and electricity. such an endless Game .
No one discerns what is going on
disasters sprout instead of grass
a Cantonment in lieu of a garden .
am puking,
this country is cursed writing is a delusion.
