Melankolia Melancholy

“Maybe I am becoming a hermit,
opening the door for only
a few special animals?
Maybe my skull is too crowded
and it has no opening through which
to feed it soup?”
― Anne Sexton , The Awful Rowing Toward God

“and God was there like an island I had not rowed to,
still ignorant of Him, my arms, and my legs worked,
and I grew, I grew,
I wore rubies and bought tomatoes
and now, in my middle age,
about nineteen in the head I'd say,
I am rowing, I am rowing
though the oarlocks stick and are rusty
and the sea blinks and rolls
like a worried eyebal,
but I am rowing, I am rowing,
though the wind pushes me back
and I know that that island will not be perfect,
it will have the flaws of life,
the absurdities of the dinner table,
but there will be a door
and I will open it
and I will get rid of the rat insdie me,
the gnawing pestilential rat.
God will take it with his two hands
and embrace it”
― Anne Sexton, The Awful Rowing Toward God

“و كلما توجهت رصاصة لصدره بدقة تامة ،
تمر لحسن الحظ
من ثقب قديم في القلب !”
― عماد أبو صالح

“ظلت عمرها كله
تغسل الملابس في البيوت
إلى أن انخلع كفّاها
، يومًا،
في طشت الماء .
ولأنها ترى حياتها
بقعة كبيرة
لن تزول إلا بالاستمرار في الغسيل
فإنها تقف ساعات طويلة
في الحديقة
وهي تقلد الأشجار
تغرس قدميها في حفرة
وترويهما بالدمع
على أمل أن ينبت لها كفّان جديدان
وتعود للعمل
مرة ثانية”
― عماد أبو صالح, عجوز تؤلمه الضحكات