Eight Poems

OLD FRIENDOh death . . . Come, my friend,sit by my side,I'll pour you a glass.Wherever have you been?The scent of boredomwafts from your face.Look, my friend,I've smashed my hopes,as yesterday I smashed my chains.Come, my friend,tonight I'll read you my poems.1984, DamascusALWAYSAlwaysbefore sleepI toss my mind's victoriesinto the trash.I embrace the horizonand dream a new dawn.Alwaysif I fall into night, the moon picks me up,falling into the day, I am steadied by the sun.The angels, they see me as Satan,but Satan says I'm an angelic one.1984, DamascusTHE CRIMEWhen the sunrise crept in,when it drew near my bed,I awoke to findupon my pillowmy slaughtered dream.The window sings,the wind plays my veins.1984, DamascusLYRIC1My chest is a cage,my heartkicks, flaps its wings.2My eyes are weary,they spend the night on the far horizon.3My thoughts are the swift wind,alighting on a wave,splashing foam on the yawning shore.4My recurring dream sitsleaning on a willow.The aged river flows mournfully by.5Where did he hide?whisper the stars.My heart rose to the sky,perhapsit shinesbrighterthan the moon . . . 1985, DamascusTHE ERA OF DUELSMysterious sorrowlike a Gypsy girl gonewith a caravan over the horizonTrees floweredin the scope of pleasureReason stands erecttickled by satellitesBetween royal lust and the opiate of freedomthe East leaps to its feetWe live in an era of duelsthis phenomenonthat metaphysics1986, DamascusONENESSHere I sitin the pupil of the world,what do I careif it closes its eyes or opens them wide!1986, DamascusCHAIN-SMOKERFor Memet BaghrashA roll of world, this.Tearthe corner of the skyand roll . . . My friend who loves tobacco more than death does.Wherever you go,your novels spill from your pocket.At night the starsreach out their hands and gather them up.1986, ÜrümchiMEETING IN SEPTEMBERDon't go!That sentence lingers nervous in your eyes.Fallen dry leaves scatter to your soul,I know, alas! Don't wait for tears to come.That sacred footstepsilently receding:a fallen willow, ah, a dying uproar.What is that flowing in me cold and barren?Just then my heart's a bloodied wild bird.The crossroads where you turned watches your shadow,the sun lies deeper than the space you left.The mighty noise that covered the blanched citysmothered once more your burning breath.1992, Ürümchi

Art · Literature · Poetry · Classical Antiquity Studies · Postcolonial and Cultural Literary Studies · Romani and Gypsy Studies