When My Written Form Moves in the Direction of Rains
I had a dream; a snow-flake of yours
woke me up.
The world looks sulky, maybe for some reasons.
I wanted to descend from your peak
to your flattest plains
but some irresolutions...
Believe me that I was satisfied with the fewest drops
of your poem, if they would smell of Father, shemshal, and home.
Toward rain I want to ramble.
I want the home devoid of wish.
I desire a glass of sideways glance.
I always write these nights alone;
the special sound of them smell of you.
Where are you going?
As if you are in a sulk and
away from the shades near the banks.
I tend to tell you about a handful of soil and an armful of
the dawn of old Wenowshe, and if your hands don’t smell of city
maybe I can remember Mother’s perfume
and scent you.
My mother says,
most of the civic girls in the new century
desire to do themselves up like the old country women
but they aren’t studious along those lines.
the whitest bride on the back of a gray horse,
every day comes towards the city
but she doesn’t dismount.
The groomsmen are waiting and
the city is astounded.
O’ dear, I often write these nights alone
you don’t come and
I don’t have the yellow lemon anymore.
written (2001) and translated (2002) by the author
*1.It is a simple Kurdish musical instrument with some holes in it that has a very nice sound.
*2.It is the name of a mountain near Saghez in Kurdistan, Iran.