The Vales of the Treacherous Nights

148

 

By : Nazhad Aziz Surme

 

 

What a bad luck,

When they give you from your pocket

But take back from your heart …

Gibran Khalil Gibran  

 

Nazhad Aziz Surme

The shadow of history stands still with its hands resting on its waist

Go along with the rains of spring

There is always a sun

Which soothes the masked margins of the earth.

There is always a brave morning

That rescues us from being lost in the woods.

 

This land of ours was the caller of roses

You came along

And gazed even at our impoverishment and tribal style

You came and made the worthy music be displeased with us

What could I praise you for?

For the virus infected windows of yours,

Or the arrogant opinions of yours?

What for..?

 

(2)

( The sign hanging at the entrance of the

Doctors’ offices / were counting the patients../

The lights / turned blind being so bright / the uninterrupted

Coughing of the black soul gadget /

Now is the time/ to go to bed / for the red and white flowers / )

 

Just look/ what an internal battle and

What an endurance?)

I reached my hand in a mad keenness

I offered my open arms in a mad keenness

What a pity that they did not grasp the sound of my soul

What a pity that you did not read the dossiers of the lilacs

You forgot that in the daylight

We opened the lights

Of our joy

In the middle of the walkways..

You forgot,

That we gave ourselves the empty glass

And offered you the filled one.

 

(3)

(The moments of time / called into / my memory../

A sound / like the intoxicated evenings /

Alienation consumes it../

The clouds face the mountains / for what / should I consider /

If I would offer you the sight of my eyes..? /

The War fooled us../ The War blinded us /muted us / deafened us /

Tricked us… /

The march of the insects.

Came through the plants../ )

 

These are the firms of the masks and facades

They understand everything themselves;

Of the order of the covering the wind..

Of the decoration of the vase in front of the door

Agony was the Medal of Honor for us

Grossed over seas and skies

In the process of friendly fire…!

 

(4)

(I had not been lost / but / were ever / I put my foot /

Appeared to be dead marine…/ I/ had not

Been lost / only / the truth was /

That I had forgotten / my ID / in the pocket of my shirt../ )

 

It turned to be an empty sky

The prospect that you

Wanted to be see

From the uncontrolled centers of yours..

Your rectangles were crushed

You rectified the triangles…

History?

Don’t ask in which closed throat it was hidden

Relentless… challenging .. Fresh.

What could be worse than us all being guilty?

What could be worse than us all of us being intoxicated..?

And what happened to the

Courage and bravery of Shakespeare

And the smell of the leafs of Whiteman

And the suffocate cries of Rambo and Verlaine

And the solid grounds of Nietzsche

And the fruitful trees of Dante and the frescos of da Vinci?

And what about the mourning of Elliot

The promise and words of Roussos

And the eastern love Goethe

And the lovely yet abandoning pace of Picasso, Cézanne and Braque

And the miserable masks of Modigliani?…

 

(5)

The rituals of the island of Crete / floated along the greasy river /

Arrived in Sicilia / crossed it (Spain)../

This process / up to now / has not shown us even a sign /

For you knowledge / we / can do

More / than / being a herd /..)

 

I wanted to make fire on the back of fish

The Ur Cemetery- the curvy and intertwined flats

The Luristan Bronze

Were dazzling in the long-haired mountains of Italy.

 

I am speaking to you; moon of the exiles

Without nest and shade

We were alone

When they crossed the sky

We were alone

When they irrigated the earth with

The starved in Africa and

Our own miseries

I am speaking to you; moon of the exiles

Without nest and shade

I never saw them teaching us how to harvest

Nor did I hear or read that

They left behind anything but ruin, distress and deception

After their short ventures..

 

I did not see, you moon of exile

The west of Mane, Klimt, Camus, Kafka,

Aragon, Dali, and Delacroix,

Let us die a natural death

Is this not pity, moon of the exile?

 

When they do not let us to write a poem

For the destruction of our towns

And the sweating forehead…?

Is this not a pity, when the hall of parties is colored

With cry?!

Nest-less moon, shade-less moon..

I hear only of the lights and glory of the capitals

Of the talked about secrets

When knowledge was made its way deceptively

To get to bust the down of the roses and the diamantes..

Ignorant as we are..

Engaged in what Farhad was pointlessly engaged in.

 

Now, moon of the exiles

The stove of lights has come to an end

I will keep in my memory

The intertwined sun-less moments of mine

These moments will be safe kept in

Those drunken eyes for which once

I wrote my songs

I will run this time

Run in a Kurdish way

And take with me my love

And then there will remain nothing here

The question is:

How will you survive then?

 

 

April 2007

 

 

 

 

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