James Abbott


I remember when
I first came here; the sweet, sweet
Abbottabad air

wrapping the soil, the
trees covered in snow. Indeed,
the presentation

us-perfect, the place
is a dream to me. Many
streams single among

us as if the wind
issues the rope of affect,
as if feeling flew

small, the song he sang
very gay. I admire at
first glance, happy to

come here. And eight good
years fast-forward, so let’s be
very sunny in

the afternoon. Ah,
now you leave me, natural
beauty! Bow, reach the

ears in the wind, my
gift to you some of the tears
of sadness. A heart

heavy said goodbye.
Never, in my opinion,
respect memory,

Abbottabad. In
my opinion, memory:
never respect it.

[via Dutch-Estonian-Arabic-Turkish, Bing translator]

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