This is the world we wanted.
All who would have seen us dead
are dead. I hear the witch's cry
break in the moonlight through a sheet
of sugar: God rewards.
Her tongue shrivels into gas . . .
Now, far from women's arms
and memory of women, in our father's hut
we sleep, are never hungry.
Why do I not forget?
My father bars the door, bars harm
from this house, and it is years.
No one remembers. Even you, my brother,
summer afternoons you look at me as though
you meant to leave,
as though it never happened.
But I killed for you. I see armed firs,
the spires of that gleaming kiln--
Nights I turn to you to hold me
but you are not there.
Am I alone? Spies
hiss in the stillness, Hansel,
we are there still and it is real, real,
that black forest and the fire in earnest.
I have lived with the after effects of trauma and this poem captures the feelings of loneliness and confusion that persist. The echoes of woundedness persist in the bright light of day and in the happy ever-after world. Absolutely lovely and right on the mark.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This peom was wonderfull to reed. Cnat wait for the sequil.