I ached

at [because of?] the bowl of dough in which

your arms were lost [disappeared],

at the long piece of cloth

with which you reined in

your newly-ripened breasts.

 

At your giving up a child,

at the torn corner of your lips

I ached.

 

A pebble thrown at your shadow[1] was enough

for me to [want to avenge] the blood from your lips

by taking whatever moisture in my mouth

and spitting it in the fact of the stone-thrower.

 

Words dried up in your mouth

The long years

turned into dust and smoke.

 

They dragged their feet slowly 

but remained with one foot in the air [remained unresolved],

the nights in your father's house.