Saqi Farooqi
The Trust
In a small town
in a school
a boy caught a tired butterfly
and as she tried to get free
the purple-blue of her wings
was powdered into the air
The boy put her
on a table, under a paperweight
he burned her wings with matches
he cut her corpse
in half
with his penknifeThat boy has gone, but
for thirty years
I’ve had his dirty penknife
and on the penknife
those brownish-yellow bloodstains
trouble me –
an acid taste on my tongue
a tense fatigue
I’m bone-weary
but I can’t sleep
Translated by Frances W Pritchett
Page(s) 131
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