AbdulHadi Sadoun

(Iraq, 1968)

Dead Fish

The dead fish of the fountain,
perchance feel the falling cold from up high?
perchance look surprised at my new suit
tight as a belt
of cloth rompled by the birds of the wind?

Every day, on the bus,
I pass near them.
The same man of always,
leaning over the fountain
polishes its scales of stone.

The dead fish,
what do they think of
if they can not swim?