Just Words: Echoes of Kurdish Women

 

 

Sweetheart   

we didn’t care how we landed here

we promised

to bury our wounds

into this weary ground

and heal our scars

under this released sun

home would be a happy hammock

swaying in the blissful air

we chirp bedtime stories

that start with

“once upon a time

there was a land of lions…”

to our kids

until they wake up

and see that

“encountering heroes”

is only a dream.

We planned to

clear the landmines

and dance in the meadows

that would grow with the touch

of our salted hands,

then we would sing the pledge of love

to the evergreen rainbows.

But this didn’t last long

when the earth beneath us

started to shrink and shrink

until it got

too small to fit in.

                          Sarwa,  February 2016

 

 

Dear sir(s),   

 

since our conscious

sends us signals

that it is hard to

follow your actions

we cannot

drown your hopes

into the oceans,

nor let your kids

seeing their dolls

washed ashore.

For some gold,

we shall not dig holes

into your courtyard

and replace it

with sugarcoated coals.

Never we will                                        

displace your heart

into the faraway lands

then trade your blood

for the entire world.

Turning your mansions

into lifeless ruins

is not what we’ve planned for,

as the power of our tear  s                         

is enough

to mirror your smile back

into your eyes

and dazzle them with

infiite fears.       

Sarwa, February 2016

 

City, a burnt ship

Inhaling smoke

maktab, a broken truck

where children

make their desks

from stones.

Mamosta upset

Friend, fingers dipped in soot,

draws on cardboard windows

the moaning paintings

on the wall

ask me to run

as far as I can.                           Sarwa      January 2016

 

 

I grew up in this land

with my folks

who gave me a shelter

with no windows

when I feel insecure

I have to wear

an honor-proof vest

which cannot shield me

from bullets they put

into my chest

In this land

I have to be a genie

they throw their evil seeds

into me

and expect love to grow.

Here, in this land

my folks tell me

that I misunderstand

the language I learnt

from my past

so I have to learn

the hard away

that

my “heart” is like a “feather”

if I don’t hold it tight

I might lose it forever.

Sarwa A  January 2016

You don’t have to be

a palmist

to portray the days

that I’ll be through,

or count

the misfortunes

that I have to eschew.

Inside my hands

I have palette

where I keep

the shades

of

my past residue,

the fears and tears

that left outgrew.

I blend them all

to paint the dream

that I’ve always

wanted to pursue.

By Sarwa