I translate a lesser sonnet of Keats
waiting for the coffee to drop;
it's a chill morning chiming ten,
short, hard rain has just ended,
beyond the window clouds in dark violet
and white break into blue
keffiyehs of the autumn sky. He lies
meekly on the grass, the poet,
in reverie, and I pause, thinking
of the broken bodies lying dead in Gaza
that were living people
when I went to asleep after midnight,
and are now gone like Keats
as I rise and go to fill my mug,
their names not written in water,
but engraved with their broken,
white bones into our consciences,
shining crimson.
25.08.2025
#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse
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