By : Nazhad Aziz Surme
What a bad luck,
When they give you from your pocket
But take back from your heart …
Gibran Khalil Gibran
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?
( 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..
That we gave ourselves the empty glass
And offered you the filled one.
(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…!
(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…
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?…
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
When they irrigated the earth with
The starved in Africa and
Our own miseries
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
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?