The first voice, and the last voice
A minute, half a minute, several seconds
It’s not eleven yet
The sky was clear like “Mawlavi’s” soul
Just like “Ahmad Mokhtar’s” horse
In the fields of Sharazour
Spring foal was running
“Golan” hill
Was putting
Poetry’s shining star of a candle
On its hair
Just like Goran
A minute, half a minute, or several seconds
It’s not eleven yet
Under the ceiling of a hollow room in Halabcha
There was a family, a mother, a father and a little chick
Several seconds to eleven
The mother was rocking the cradle and
The baby was smiling and
The father was listening to music and
He was lying down
At eleven
A roar, two roars, three roars and
A smoke just like “Ojah’s” son’s heart
The air died
The sky died
The spring died
The mother, the father and the little chick
At eleven
Under the ceiling of a hollow room in Halabcha
Turned into three statues
Hugging each other!
After eleven
The city became a drowned pigeon, its neck underneath its wings
No cocooning, no twitting, no singing
No wriggling
No screeching
No whispering, no breathing
After eleven
There was only a voice, a whisper in that city
Which reached the mountain’s ears
Through the venom
It was planting the Tree of Life
Only a voice
After eleven
It was the voice of the music of that room
Which was singing the anthem of “Gun and Peshmarga”!
Sherko Bekas
