We present you a poem of Georgian poet Ms.Lela Samniashvili, which is about war through eyes of a Chechen girl.<\/p>\n
\n \u2026<\/span><\/p>\n .<\/span><\/p>\n <\/strong><\/span>My soul is married to fire. No eyelash, no teardropp I\u2019m a hostage of my hostages. A hostage \u2013 Dead motherland, dead God, Lela Samniashvili<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" We present you a poem of Georgian poet Ms.Lela Samniashvili, which is about war through eyes of a Chechen girl.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":2922,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[5],"tags":[725],"class_list":["post-2921","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-poems","tag-lela-samniashvili"],"views":3376,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.waynakh.com\/eng\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2921","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.waynakh.com\/eng\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.waynakh.com\/eng\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.waynakh.com\/eng\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.waynakh.com\/eng\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2921"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/www.waynakh.com\/eng\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2921\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":12269,"href":"https:\/\/www.waynakh.com\/eng\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2921\/revisions\/12269"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.waynakh.com\/eng\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/2922"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.waynakh.com\/eng\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2921"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.waynakh.com\/eng\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2921"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.waynakh.com\/eng\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2921"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\n<\/span><\/p>\n
\nBlack is a bandage to my lips and breath.
\nI\u2019m keeping the bread near my heart – an explosive \u2013
\nYou sowed in my rocky earth, – stroking it with my fingers
\nLike the dead breast of a young husband.<\/p>\n
\nWill fall from the iron pupil. My braid
\nIs tied to the wrist of Allah. I\u2019m keeping
\nA piece of rock near my heart, – stroking it with my fingers,
\nLike the forehead of my dead child.<\/p>\n
\nOf this hall full of the echoes of applause,
\nMelted into the muffled roars of the bullets,
\nThe bells mourning all over the rocks.
\nI\u2019m keeping hatred near my heart, stroking it with my fingers,
\nLike the memory of my dead love.<\/p>\n
\nThe scream of the dead woman \u2013 you long for,
\nIs dead in me. My burden is buried into your plains.
\nKeep for yourself my bread \u2013 explosive,
\nA piece of a rock, the hatred \u2013 taken out of my heart.<\/p>\n