1.
Oh, my kind friend, oh, you who encourage every hidden confession,
The scholar of my true thoughts, the pure soul who shares my voice,Ask after me.
You’ll find that the kohl stone of distance
Has broken the glass of my arrival.No sound is left to my tongue.
When I enter to worship, the room without you is like the plains of Shahrazur.
Cows swim the waters of my pure tears, flowing as the Zelm.
At night, I am the moth who orbits the lantern—
At sunrise, the devoted sunflower who searches Dukan’s towers.
Sorrow erases me, oh, beloved of Egypt.
There’s no trace of this second Yusuf’s mouth.
In the garden of heart-song, leaves fall as autumn, grief, arrives.
It’s late.
Come back.
The spring, my youth, has withered.
Don’t get left behind in Kirkuk.
Don’t spill my blood.
If you don’t come back from up there, you’ll kill me.
Act for me, as you delivered my greetings to the faqes.
After a handshake, present me as their certain servant.
Please, tell everyone, Bekhod has sweet speech.
Though I am the Khosrau of poetry, I am their servant.
2.
If the hoopoe comes on the morning wind to your Saba,
He will place the throne of Sulaiman in your desires.
Yesterday, my breath became a Chinese perfumery
When the morning wind brought the musky letter of your faith.
If you ask after my heart and soul, you’ll find a flower garden
Where, day and night, the simurgh of my tongue recites for you.
The heart has left.
They say it’s in Medina.
The soul is left.
I sacrifice it for you, sacrifice for you.
My eyes have become vessels for my tears, water.
I am beside you, your greenskeeper.
A hundred thanks to God who cured our patient.
You can interpret the internal.
Give a few prayers.
Bekhod is a homeless orphan, a child of the Prophet,
Fragile.
Remember him to your God.
3.
Since she left, I am estranged from my heart.
How I search.
There’s no trace of my heart.
I wonder which mountain hung my heart,
Or which sigh scorched my heart.
She shares my mouth, my care, my voice, oh, God.
She keeps my secrets and comes before me, oh, God.
She is a jewel to kings and orphans, oh, God.
What ocean has my heart fallen into?
It drowns.
He is Majnoon for strands of hair from which Leila, I wonder,
Or Wameq to which Azra’s magic, I wonder,
The crazy beloved of which desert, I wonder.
Which angel’s face has he seen that my heart is scared?
Just the thought of her line and mark turns him.
He spins around a shining lantern, her beauty.
He doesn’t know whose hands have ruined him.
He is like chaff in the mouth of the wind, my heart.
In that emptiness, that desert, who is his friend?
In those peaks and mountains, who is he heavy headed for?
Whose eyelashes, swords, have cut, and cut, and wounded him?
How does he survive, my heart, stabbed from every side?
Why won’t my tears pour down like rain?
Why won’t I be famous in the cities like Jacob?
I have asked strangers and loved ones about Joseph.
There is no clue from anyone about my heart.
Should I cry for him or his torn curtain of breath?
Or for the liver, punctured and in pieces?
What has he done, oh God, that his sleep, food, and water
Are sorrow, insomnia, and blood.
Oh, my heart.
What should I do, what should I say, for my vastly ill heart?
They witness my white hair, my yellow face.
Blistering groans fill my frigid mouth.
There must be a reason.
My heart must be tangled with tragedy.
That chest is empty of deceit.
He is without hate.
He serves the laws of the Prophet, nation, and religion.
It is known: he has gone to serve Medina’s leaders.
I thought he was doomed, but he is not: my heart.
I sacrifice myself for he who sacrifices for the Prophet
Like a servant: the dog at the door of the King of Arabs.
The King of Arabs had Qurayshi origins.
His two eyebrows slice my liver, my heart.
He who sacrifices himself grabs my soul.
Night and day, kings come to kiss his servant’s feet.
Bekhod, don’t wait anymore, hoping.
Even if he takes his head off, he won’t return to you, my heart.
4.
This vile and faithless world crushes me.
Planet, in your tilted path, mete out a bit of justice.
World, may God never grant you permanence.
Universe, may God get to you before Judgment Day
The way you burned the world down
With the poisoned bomb you threw.
He is a servant who worships his nation and gives his body,
A conscious man who secludes himself in corners,
A philosopher of Kurdish scholarship,
A scientist of the material and spiritual,
The owner of Life and Proverbs,
The master of prose, the soul of Mawlawi,
The gardener in old Tuz’ four gardens,
The man made wealthy by Ganjavi’s five treasures,
The nightingale in Shams’ rose garden,
The dove in Rumi’s cedar trees,
The man who, like Jesus’ pure breath, resurrected
Dead meanings in verse and prose,
An Ahmad Pasha without lion tamers.
He made the lion faithful to hunt and corner prey.
The lively gathering place for this era’s scholars,
The old man of this world, the youth of the next,
Shero’s hands of death took Haji Tofiq’s
Sweet soul like they took Khosrau’s.
You are a hundred dancing feet on today’s stage,
But tomorrow, you must bow your high head.
Since your bright sun set, Bekhod’s heart has been thick, like his nights.
Through generosity, you will ascend,
Reaching the heights of God’s lovers.
Brother, “the world is asleep.”
He who wakes
Tells you,
“You are drunk with sleep.”
The translations are by Alana Marie Levinson-LaBrosse. In a few instances, I have made minor adjustments to the wording of her translations, but full credit for translating the collection belongs to her.
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