Fayaq Bekas' diwan

 1. 

This poem is close to my heart... because I know it by heart. We used to recite it at school when I was just five years old. I haven’t forgotten a single word of it since, and it remains a deeply pleasant poem, especially when recited aloud.

(God, nurture this land)

God, nurture this land

It clings to the heart, so sweetly 

These fine, colorful plains

(Its water, springs of Kausar. Its soil,

precious stones. Its flowers, rush broom.)

The spring picnics

The soft, beautiful grass

Stuns a hundred hearts 

(Its water, springs of Kausar. Its soil,

precious stones. Its flowers, rush broom.)

The high white mountains

Stand for the past 

A meadow, beautiful, and green

(Its water, springs of Kausar. Its soil,

precious stones. Its flowers, rush broom.)

This place is a place for the Kurds

A place for heroes and the brave

A den for the fearless lions

(Its water, springs of Kausar. Its soil,

precious stones. Its flowers, rush broom.)

The eyes of this land turn to us 

To lift it out of these grave times 

It’s a shame, to let it run to ruin 

(Its water, springs of Kausar. Its soil

precious stones. Its flowers, rush broom.)

2. 

The original, recited by Adil Aziz

(O homeland)

O homeland, I am in love with you, your face keeps coming back to me.
I remember you even in the days of bondage and captivity, when iron and rope were on the feet.
Not once did I turn away from your memory.
Do not think I ever forgot you through prison, exile, or humiliation.

By God, the One, without partner, the One and only,
your love has set a fire in my heart.
A fire like this: even if water were poured on it for a thousand years,
it would not be extinguished.

Do not speak to me of your sorrow, homeland.
Those words open what is barely closing in me.

Stop mourning. Smile, lift your head.
Be proud of your name; it has spread across the world, whether you asked it to or not.

Misfortune has moved away. Fortune, strangely, has come to your side.
The star of your fate is high up there, a little dim maybe, but it is there.

And yes, there were times you were humiliated, held under the hand of the oppressor.
But that is not the whole story. It never is.

Your time of joy will come, and your enemies will scatter.

In this age, talk of patriotism by itself has no weight.
This is the age of effort, only effort raises anything, even art, if it rises at all.

Your children are not without fault, no one is.
But how brave they are, a hundred thanks to them.

Look how they fall on your road, soaked in blood, as if there is no other way forward.

Do not blame me. I am still your child from before.
I remain patient, though I don’t even know where that patience comes from sometimes,
even when my hands and feet are bound.

And it comes down to this:

If God gives me strength,
I will break your enemy
and put him beneath your feet,
like a dog.

3. 

This poem has been performed by many artists, from Ali Mardan to more contemporary voices. For reasons I can’t quite explain, I don’t enjoy it as a song; I prefer to read it quietly to myself instead.

(O moon, you and I...)

O moon, you and I are both companions in grief,

both struck by the same deep sigh of sorrow.

You drift above the sky, pale and wandering,

while I wander helpless through the streets below.

I beseech you, O moon, qibla of lovers,

remedy for the wounded hearts of the lovelorn,

tonight is a night like this: come and rescue me,

alone, companionless, powerless without my beloved.

My heart is weary, broken, drowned in sorrow,

entangled in the sweet snare of love.

It is bound fast to those intoxicating eyes;

I am undone, a captive of those twisting locks.

Ever since, she has taken hold of my thoughts,

and I have become familiar with nothing but tears.

O moon, you are the radiance of sacred love,

the joy that visits the grieving heart.

I swear to you by love and by beauty itself,

and by the breath of the early morning breeze,

tell me your story, speak it plainly to me,

and ease this heavy pain within my chest.

What has happened to you, that you are so troubled?

Why do you appear so pale, so still, so broken?

Tell me, I beg you: how much beauty have you witnessed?

How many lovers have you seen clasped in embrace?

How many gatherings of passion have you watched?

How many thrones, fortunes, kings have you seen?

How many heroes, how many sultans have passed before you?

How many peoples, how many nations, how many cities?

How many wars without meaning, how many upheavals?

How many bombardments of Kurdistan have you witnessed?

How many red shrouds of your martyrs?

How many displaced, how many homes reduced to ruin?

How many tear-stained, bloodshot eyes have you seen?

O moon, you have seen so much of this world,

you have seen hypocrisy, oppression, and injustice.

And so you have been made this way:

your colour and your light slowly drained away.

Translation source and credits for poem 1

The rest are my own translations.