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A poem by Nada Menzalji

Yearning for the Coffin


Translated from Arabic by Valentina Viene

The old Europeans love to wear red in spite of a life whose colour is the bark of trees. They proceed slowly but they don’t hesitate at a turning.


The elderly, It suffices them to be first in the bus row during their free excursions between hospitals in the white waiting rooms. They are most enthusiastic. They wake from their naps, their wet eyes turning round in space searching for the rest of their friends.

From their conversations

you will gather names like Cherie, Max, Tiger or Crispy and if you seem particularly nice one of them will tuck in a veined hand to grab an image from their wallet. You’ll be relieved for not having asked about their grandchildren, What they study and where they work when they reveal a picture of a dog in a Superman outfit or a cat, with a boastful look, unmissable to an expert eye.

The European elderly are not alone. They receive at least one phone call a week. But they will have to survive until Christmas if they want a gift. When there is a wedding or a divorce or a new arrival in the family they will know in due time: the mail here is not delayed and doesn’t go missing.

They go to the mortician like a bride to the tailor. They will lie down in the coffins, join their hands on their chests and close their eyes for the picture.

The witty ones might surprise the photographer with a smile.

They choose the suitable make up for the occasion after long sessions with the funeral make up artist. The hairstyle, the flowers, the colours.

They ascertain the number of guests but what makes them most anxious are the traitors, A guest who precedes them with a sudden departure and misses the celebration.

Long time passed since they were teenagers, But most probably they will laugh with insolence and the beats of their orphaned hearts will be perturbed.

If only they were to see, staring inattentively at the TV, the image of hundreds of Syrians sailing in their mass graves. The sea swallows them then returns and spits out their torn bodies, keeping for itself their souls on the desolate rocks ashore, while they dream of a strange dream.

A dream that probably no one except them would consider: to become one day one of them.

This poem and others have been read at the Exiled Writers' Ink in November 2016

http://www.exiledwriters.co.uk/portfolio-items/nada-menzalji/

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