My Son is Nine Years Old

My son is nine years old,

nine winters nine summers

we put thunder in his gaze

he holds the seas in his two hands.

 

He raises his hands high

his back pressed to the wall

they measure the sound of his breath

and poke about in his small heart.

 

As if we were living in a Jewish ghetto

with monstrous German guards all around.

Zatouna1968: we are living my third exile.  

  

 

Arcadia I