Dor
by Nathalie Handal
We walk through clouds
wrapped in ancient symbols
We descend the hill
wearing water
Maybe we are dead
and don’t know it
Maybe we are violet flowers
and those we long for
love only
our unmade hearts
On attends, on attends
Wait for Duras and Eminescu
to tell us in French then Romanian
light has wounds
slow down—
memory is misgivings
Wait until the nails
get rusty
in the houses of our past.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
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