A child
Lost at the Place of Tortures,
a child leans over the fountain
where tears and nostalgia gush
It has walked weary for centuries of war
Run from wounds to wisdom
From wisdom to the fury of life
Its eyes are riveted to the heart
Eyes that ruin the circles of conceit
Of the debaters of blood
It comes from that line of white dawn
Behind the forest
Where the tree makes the legendary sky
In the middle of the square disguised as if for a celebration
The child does not see the ambush
Of the destroyers of the future
It bends down, drawn by the pure water of its thirst
It might probably fall
If a gesture did not divert the fragility
From its path.
Philippe Tancelin, France
Translation Mirosław Grudzień – Anna Maria Stępień
from « De l’Inchangé, Palestine – L’Inséparable poème (1982-2024) »
l’Harmattan, Paris 2024
