Another morning for the sleepy girls,
Benghazian journalists
tripping along dead streets
in night’s leftover darkness
in the echoes of windy dreams.
Their desks gather rime
from the nearby harbor
scattered by winter’s rain
their papers are pure ice
their seats confused frost
their breaths
their ideas
their writing
the remnants of sleep
nothing
nobody
Soul’s shiver waiting for them,
the years’ marathon approaching
slowly
stubbornly.
----------------
From: IWP Translation Workshop Anthology 200 5 Iowa University
