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 returns to me wherever I may be. I remembered you even in the days of bondage and captivity, when iron and rope held my feet. Not once did I turn away from your memory. Do not imagine that prison, exile or humiliation could make me forget you.

By God, the One, without partner, the One and only, your love has set a fire in my heart. It is a strange fire. Pour water upon it for a thousand years, and still it will not be extinguished.

Do not speak to me of your sorrow, homeland. Such words disturb wounds that have scarcely begun to close.

Enough of mourning. Smile, lift your head. Be proud of your name. It has travelled across the world, whether you wished it or not.

Misfortune has withdrawn, and fortune, almost unexpectedly, has come to stand beside you. The star of your destiny is high above. Its light may be faint, but it has not gone out.

Yes, there were times when you were humiliated, when you lived beneath the hand of the oppressor. I have not forgotten. But that is not the whole of your history. It never was.

Your day of joy will come. Your enemies will scatter.

But this is an age in which patriotism, spoken of but not practised, has little value. These are times for effort. Nothing is raised without it, not even art, if art is to rise at all.

Your children are not without faults. Who among us is? Yet how brave they are. A hundred thanks to them.

Look at them falling along your roads, their bodies drenched in blood, as though there were no other way forward.

Do not blame me, homeland. I am still the child I was before. I remain patient, though at times I cannot explain where that patience comes from, even when my hands and feet are bound.

And in the end, there is only this:

If God grants me strength, I will break your enemy and cast 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 companions in grief,
both burdened by the same deep sigh of sorrow.
You wander pale and distant across the heavens,
while I wander helplessly through the streets below.

I beseech you, O moon, qibla of lovers,
remedy for the wounded hearts of the lovelorn.
Tonight is such a night as this. Come, rescue me,
alone and without a companion, powerless without my beloved.

My heart is weary, broken, drowned in sorrow,
caught fast in the sweet snare of love.
It is bound to those intoxicating eyes;
I am undone, a captive of those twisting locks.

Ever since, she has occupied my every thought,
and tears have become the only thing I know.

O moon, you are the radiance of sacred love,
the joy that visits even the most sorrowful heart.
I swear to you by love, by beauty itself,
and by the breath of the early morning breeze:
tell me your story. Speak plainly,
and ease the 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 one another's arms?
How many gatherings of passion have passed beneath your gaze?

How many thrones and fortunes, how many kings?
How many heroes and sultans have come and gone?
How many peoples, nations and cities?
How many senseless wars, how many upheavals?

How many bombardments of Kurdistan have you witnessed?
How many red shrouds of its martyrs?
How many displaced souls, how many homes reduced to ruins?
How many eyes stained with tears and reddened by grief?

O moon, you have seen so much of this world.
You have witnessed its hypocrisy, its oppression and its injustice.
Perhaps that is why you have become as you are:
your colour fading, your light slowly dying.

Disclaimer and references: 

Translation source for poem #1

The rest are my own translations.