Caro Tango
Soon they will come. First we will hear
the sound of their boots approaching at dawn
then they'll appear through the mist.
In their death-bringing uniforms
they will march towards our homes
their guns and tanks pointing forward.
They will be confronted by young men
with rusty guns and boiling blood.
These are our young men
who took their short-lived freedom for granted.
We will lose this war, and blood
will cover our roads, mix with our
drinking water, it will creep into our dreams.
Keep your head down and stay in doors -
we've lost this war before it has begun
Invasion
The one you have finished examining
is my son. That is the milky coloured Kurdish
suit his father tailored for him, the blue shirt
his uncle gave to him. Your findings prove
that it is him - he was a tall fifteen year old,
was left handed, had broken a rib.
I know she too has been looking for her son
but you have to tell her that this is not him.
Yes the two of them were playmates and fought
the year before. But it was my son who broke
a rib, hers only feigned to escape trouble.
That one is mine! Please give him back to me.
I will bury him under on verge of my garden -
the mulberry tree will offer him its shadow,
the flowers will earnestly guard his grave,
the hens will peck on his gravestone,
the beehive will hum above his head.
Dispute Over a Mass Grave
Neither do the white bodies of the universe
say good morning to her
nor do the handmade stars
give her a kiss.
Earth,where so many roses, fine sentiments are buried,
could die for want of a glance, a scent,
This dusty ball is lonely,
so very lonely,as she sees the moon's patched clothing
and knows that the sun's a big thief
who burns with the many beams he has taken
for himself and who looks at the moon and the earth
like lodgers.
The Lonely Earth
Choman Hardi
I want no flowers,
no epoch of union,
no dawn of disunion.
I want no flowers
for I am the loveliest flower.
I want no kisses
if for a true wrist
I must hold some knight –
no epoch of marriage,
no dawn of divorce,
no widow's fever.
I want no kisses
if, along with love, I become a martyr.
I want no tears
over the coffin or me, a corpse.
I want no cherry tree of sympathy
dragged to the walls of my grave,
no flowers or kisses,
no tears or miseries.
Bring nothing.
Hold nothing.
I die as a homeland without a flag, without a voice.
I am grateful.
I want nothing.
I will accept nothing.
Were I a Martyr
The vague mirror of my time
broke because
it made what was small big
and what was big small.
Dictators and monsters filled its face.
Even now as I breathe
its shards pierce the walls of my heart
and instead of sweat
I leak glass.
Mirror
Kajal Ahmad
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