This poem is dedicated to the victims of Anfal chemical attacks. Anfal was a genocide that killed between 50,000 and 182,000 Kurds as well as a couple of thousand Assyrians in Iraq (1986-88).
April my friend, my spirit, my sweet season, my love, my joy and my shiny attire
April my nightmare, my scream, my reflection, my tears, and my blue sapphire
My remedy and my healing poison, my praying beads and my martyrs' mountain
King of my grief, my mirror in shattered pieces, and carrier of my spattered leaves
I hate flash backs, I resist to grief, I cover my scars, I don’t want to bleed
I own my kingdom, but I can’t reach the ground or go back to my motherland
I can't go back to the bombing planes! Thousands of souls disappeared on a March day
Those who survived they were scarred and misshapen, looked alive but their souls were divinely embalmed
Anfal and Halabja are calling on me, thousand souls choked to death, or buried alive, when chemicals arrived
Young women were enslaved and sold, children the elderly and young men caged, homes confiscated
Homes turned to graveyards, people turned to ghosts, dead or alive no difference, no one there to hear
Years came and went and I’m still standing here, telling you stories and adding my fear from today
My heartbeat is racing, my eyes are dull, my body’s here, my soul is pulling me towards home
Dancing and shouting “My heart Beats! My Silhouette Souls“ Where are you all gone?
Am I a coat which has been hanging in the wardrobe for years? Hoping for your highness to knock and wipe away my tears?
You know me very well, I’m proudly standing strong, telling you my glorious “Gone with the Wind” tales
April please come to me, sing for me your lovely lullaby, stories of love and Ever-Green life
You and I have seen good days and bad days, we’ve loved, we’ve cried but never given up
I can hear the birds singing above the vine leaves over the tree, praying for the buds to sprout
Parween, my angel mother said to me once; Homeland was heaven when I was born
My father built us a small house by the mountain, we had a farm a spring slides and swings
He was good at jokes, he was good at poems, our house was filled with friends and songs
Our town was small, but our hearts were huge, we lived a jolly life and shared our crops
We sang “Ay-Raqib”, and we felt resilient, we made a circle and danced the Dove dance
Can you remember one year when I came home after living away for a while on my own?
Missing my family, my home, I couldn’t wait to see my angel my mother again
Shocked by a stranger who waited near the bus, telling me to be quiet, cause everyone was dead!
Men, women, children, animals, trees, all turned yellow and fallen like autumn leaves
Adults were working and children were at schools, out of nowhere planes shrieked and zoomed
They dropped mustard bombs, the whole town was poisoned, and my heaven was doomed
Mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, cousins, friends, neighbours and even passengers
Houses, schools, mosques, shops, birds, flowers, trees and gardens, they all faded
April my best friend, take my hand again, lift my soul up high, lend me your wide wings
Free me from my fears, hold me close to bear, wipe my tears and comb my tangled hair
I want to get rid of my black clothes and wear my shiny dress, all will be OK, I don’t want to despair
Same as every year, I learn from you to rise, to smell the flowers and listen to the birds
In my heart are yesterday’s today’s and tomorrow’s pains, all engraved into my soul
I swear by your beauty, I swear by your presence, I have no regrets knowing you then or now
I will always love you, will always thank you, for being with me and for being by my side
As you will remain evergreen and cheerful, promising the desperate to find your delight
Is this a crazy survival or even a game? Am I living inside a muddled maze and can’t see the end?
A holocaust-like my life story has been! Still, if God wills, I wish and intend to make it bright
April king of the seasons, my love, my friend, my joy and my blue Sapphire
You are my blossom, my destined desire, my strength, my perfumed narcissus and my Nowruz Empire.
© COPYRIGHT 2015. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.