This poem was originally published on The Pittsburgher’s predecessor, The Dog Door Cultural.
Frantic light searches for providence
Like the lost mother, a justification
And the broken son, his purpose.
Significance bleeds through open palms-
Catching water is just a teasing game,
A cruel dance of hands adorned with blighted charms.
The shadows employ the vests of our memories,
And our dead are left naked, barred for centuries.
Under bridges, tables and tiles seeps my gaze
In search of ground, a calm estate.
On this soil I have stretched my skin,
Scratched my eyes, tore my nails to get inside.
Stained by sworn promises I held my head,
Fell to the floor and left
Trails of pity: I had sacrificed my soul to theft.
And for the rest?
Faith had a body no longer,
Just crumbled stone professed.
Here we are cutting and creating our own religion:
Confinements painted like red borders around our eyes,
The golden drops on our lips
Are the shadowed footsteps of the words we once said.
The rules are simple but many,
The days are numbered but unknown,
Our prayers live in silence
But worst of all,
Our God hides alone. ▲
Dalia Impiglia is an Italian and Syrian undergraduate student at the University of Edinburgh studying Philosophy and English Literature.