1. (Dervish Abdulla)
With sallow cast hand and faint shimshal,
dervish I waited on a basta
brimming with grief and mourning.
Looking at you,
I saw a monument to a backbreaking age
Your fate,
the nest of the nightingale's sorrow
Yes, it's clear:
simple nations value those who create
like the moon's reflection
in a muddy pool,
but wise nations give
the comfortable throne and great crown
to one like you
who has mastered the shimshal's every opening,
who makes dawn weep
and speak with magical, mythical melody
Brother dervish!
I know you wander,
homeless,
for your living,
that desperation drives you
to beg a bite from scoundrels,
that with your death,
your snarling ney,
you suffocate the amateur's ears,
but what can we do
about the black luck of some luminaries
who,
like wind-caught seeds
must flower on hard stone:
If the universe
hadn't tied your life to this time,
God knows
which throne your hem might brush up against
You didn't study in a school,
not one letter,
no master took your hand.
Your own genius taught you
your shimshal,
every song's rhythm,
elongated and staccato,
your artistic fingertips,
your skill
captured each one.
I've heard so much music
that clamors of foreign souls
my Kurdish constitution has crumbled.
Dervish Abdulla,
I beg you
for a lawk,
ai ai,
or heyran,
for our national sense
to wash through
my muted, bleak psyche
like a wave.
By God,
you soothe my soul
more than Beethoven,
So, Dervish,
please,
help my hapless soul.
Translation source and credits
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