The Brooch
By Mririda n’Ait Attik
Grandmother, grandmother,
Since he left I think only of him
And I see him everywhere
He gave me a fine silver brooch
And when I adjust my haїk on my shoulders,
When I hook its flap over my breasts,
When I take it off at night to sleep,
It’s not the brooch I see, but him!
My granddaughter, throw away the brooch.
You will forget him and your suffering will be over.
Grandmother, it’s over a month since I threw it away,
But it cut deeply into my hand.
I can’t take my eyes off the red scar:
When I wash, when I spin, when I drink—
And my thoughts still are of him!
My granddaughter, may Allah heal your pain!
The scar is not on your hand, but in your heart.
Copyright © by the owner.
