Mourid Barghouti: Sand Kingdom

With small shovels
and plastic buckets
the kids
in their colourful clothes
are building strong sand castles.
They throw balls in a game without rules
they shout, call names, laugh,
get scratched in short inevitable clashes
Complaints are also inevitable:
"Why did you leave me alone?"
"Why don’t you leave me alone?"
They squat on the boards, in a flash,
then stand upright, in a flash,
to make the swing fly higher and higher.
They invent their sudden demands:
a glass of water,
a cry for help, soon forgotten,
a napkin
a look at the miracle about to take place,
"Watch what I am going to do now!
"Watch me jump!"
In the half circle of benches around the park,
on wooden seats
that have almost lost their cumin-coloured paint
mothers and grandmothers in their drab clothes
turn up their collars
to avoid a gust of cold wind
or with silent fingers
straighten their wrinkled worries.
And from time to time
trying to overcome their boredom
they exchange the latest news
in low voices.
They send their kids a caring smile
an encouraging look
or an instructive gesture.
A big-bellied cat with heavy steps
moves around, as if lost, looking for something.
A string of birds, silent, moves slowly
like a column of prisoners of war.
Dark clouds pile up above the scene
a small sun keeps on trying
A loud weeping
comes from the sand kingdom,
A kid shouts in the face of everyone:
the castle has fallen.