The joy of the mirrors with the faces passing
Turned the heart of the innocent cynically surpassing
Exposing the pain behind a firm face
Granting truth for a confused soul’s doubting
And the light sends my reflection to vain
As if I would be a start to the end closing
Invading the shades against the ego, annoying
Or just to contain an illusion that blocks the crossing
Like death, lowering its face in disdain
From the gentle twilight tone in red glowing
Sending the youth to mourning without warning
Or possessing the sorrow of a woman without resting
Said by her, in scattered voice, hopeless and insane
“These cities – just like my luck – are distressing”
She played on the strings of the mirrors inspired by her pain
As a dissonant silence in the nights while raining
Inhaling light / darkness as if been the same
She needs the miracle of the stars passing
So that it may elucidate the curse of a futile heart
Or by seconds into the past travelling
Might the mirror recognize the secret of her faces again?
That has the reflection of the deep wounding
Or might she need another face?
Until it becomes as she desired … pure and everlasting
Benyamin Bensalah
23.09.2018
Translated from the Arabic poem of Soumia Douifi, “سواحر” (Sawahir).
