By Leylanaz Shajii
In between the green curves,
the road meanders through your ribs
as you walk
with your mouth wide open
to eat the air
and the different shades of green and gray.
Throw your head back and squint your eyes.
How would you look from above?
Bits of fire, carried by the wind,
vanished in the air,
seven astronauts shattered.
It's romantic, you say,
to so suddenly die
after having seen
the space far beyond the sky.
But from their shuttle, you think,
far from the green turns, the orbit, and the skies,
did they see the children die
like threads of black ants
crushed under feet,
or like some flies
squashed under a red swatter
on a hot summer day.
Perhaps the astronauts caught a brief glimpse of
the miniature corpses
spread around the ochre dry lines
on the other side of the green.
And perhaps the sight changed the color of their
right before they, too, died.
Who knows what goes on inside.
From here, amid the fresh hills and the crisp space,
stuck to the gravel road and to the blood rushing in
dead bodies are numbers
mute astronomical statistics
thrown numbly in between black and white prints,
and devoid of stories.
How do we measure lives in between the green curves?
You tap your feet,
and your neck is stiff,
why is it that you don?t hear
the sound of all the other breaths?
You open your mouth wider to take in
the horizon, the planets and the extra space
and you start to run
with your arms open in an embrace
and let the road slice through your guts.