I pick another of Keats sonnets
to be rewritten on water
in a language alien
to him; and then I go
and put the coffee machine
on, the mere sound
of the the black
liquid dripping
warming me
more than the slowly
increasing, hesitant light
of an August midday
outside. But nothing
can warm,
breathe back life
into bodies broken
in Gaza or in El Fasher;
lives and flesh
dismantled by hands
and minds
uncaring
as I try to reconstruct
the words and sentences
of a long dead youth,
not unlike those
whose brown and black
corpses lie
unburied in our conscience.
25.08.2025
#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse
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