Hussein Habasch

The Fountain

The Mother nurses her child,
Her bosoms are a Fountain.
The Female grants her love
Free of charge,
Her heart is a Fountain.
The Bird flies on the horizon,
It’s wings are a Fountain.
The Pen dances on the paper,
It’s ink is a Fountain.
“The rolling head of the poet
In the center of the arena,
Is a Fountain”.

Natalia Rendón

Última actualización: 28/06/2018