It has been a long time since we were imprisoned inside
this pomegranate.
In vain, we rush and knock the surface by our heads,
hoping that the hole might open upon us so that we could meet the air once.
Our losses are increasing everyday.
Some of the seeds have sacrificed their juice for freedom
as they were opening a way through the trenches.
My sisters, the seeds of the pomegranate, I called them.
The notches which began to appear on the surface
Proved that there was a fist threatening our fate and squeezing our dreams.
So what do you suggest for our liberation?
We shall stay more together.
In the present, we shall call a superpower for help.
Nobody will hear our calls that are covered by this thick peel.
We shall wait for a savior.
We will be rotten before anybody would think of us.
Then we shall stand in circles, like impossible holes.
Before the circles were completed, a hole started to
open by itself.
We wanted to dance a dabka,* but a worm reared its head toward the terrified
seeds.
The pomegranate started shaking and a big crack began to appear.
Some of the seeds trembled inside the human fist, while others stripped off
on the ground.
I'm still here hung on the cavity and the worm lies in ambush for me.
*an Iraqi folk dance
by Dunya Mikhail