I cannot speak to you, because I am mute.
I cannot touch you for I do not have hands to caress you with.
My skin is beauty incarnate,
Though it is cold from years of forgetting,
And dirty from the dust of an unfamiliar land.
You do not see how I am in my soul;
My pomegranate heart, once sanguine and vital,
That would pulse like the stars,
Trembling with the yearning of love,
And the enchantment of a sacred treasure.
My head covered with the veil of the blessed moon;
Kissed by the sun upon its rising;
Oh merciful Allah sat by my side.
My Granada, my Pomegranate heart,
Supplanted by the Monkey-Lion
Who stands upon my body,
Without knowing what passes
Beneath its feet,
And its averted eyes.
The poetry of an age,
Where I was the only black lioness,
Amongst lion-masked monkeys.
The sins of the false rulers,
Weighing heavily upon my shoulders,
Like an eternal slumber,
Imprisoned in falsified words,
That would paint my eyes with Lapis,
And my hair with coal,
And my complexion with the mud
Of their footprints.
Those with the skin of silver,
And the copper-red hair.
Who cut out my tongue,
With their blades of piety,
And their soft, weak hands,
Stained with the promise of salvation.
But they did not save me.
Those who would leave me like this,
Without voice, without life,
Unable to shout for help;
Unable to tell my story.
But at the end of it all,
I am still here,
And I will see you.
Waiting for you to notice me.
Waiting for you to touch me.
Hoping that you will remember me,
As I once was.
Waiting for the return,
Of my one true love,
My black-maned Lion,
Beautiful and alive.
Hoping that I will live again,
In your eyes and in your heart.
*Translated into English from the original Spanish, posted on my photography blog Roving Bess.