Her Room

It is the wish of "The Woman's Voice" that no issue of hers should reach the readers without a song from the poetry of Michel Trad; and this poem, "Her Room," is excerpted from his new diwan, "Jalnar."

...And still, in the shadows, a waist aflutter,
on its blue sheets, and tassels of gold brocade,
and still this dust on the faces of the toys,
and a moth's wing asleep upon its candle.

And the frame of her picture, that time has worn and riddled,
and a vase that the snow keeps beating down,
and the perfume wilted among her locks,
and a spider and roses trading reproaches.

And a carpet, threadbare and faded, that she used to spread
facing the moon, and sprinkle over with jasmine;
its four yellow corners are whispering together
and asking after you, like the mad.

And still there is a flask of wine, and a book —
whenever I turn its pages it breathes of roses —
a little longing, and memories out of youth:
here a bare breast, there cheeks.

Jalnar, like a dream my days with you
have gone, and what is gone has no returning;
I bade my heart farewell the day my heart bade you farewell,
like the clouds the wind tears to shreds.