[Hussein Habasch (b. 1970) is a Kurdish poet from Syria. He writes in Kurdish and Arabic. He has published four collections of poetry. He lives in Germany]

Four Poems

Hussein Habasch

In Praise of my Father

My father, his trousers flowing

His shirt adorned with the scent of earth

His forehead wide as a field of wheat

Is still gazing with eyes of love and longing

at the green olive trees

Measuring, with the sugar of yearning,

the distance between Shaykh al-Hadid and Bonn

whose name he knows by heart

He is still surging

like the river Ifrin

Hard, stubborn, and rough

He only fears God

and separation

from another son

He is still repeating his supplications

in his broken Arabic

on the prayer beads

five times every day

Asking God a thousand times

between one bow and another

to protect his children from harm

He is still simple

Bowing to guests,

prayer,

and the seedlings in his little orchard

But nothing else

He is still sitting

on his wooden chair

in the courtyard

Speaking to his guests with pride

Listening with pride

Silent with pride

Laughing with pride

Shaking hands with the distant,

very distant, horizon,

with pride

He is still comparing

Butterflies and humans

Trees and humans

Love and humans

The sun and humans

Earth and humans

. . .

. . .

But when he listens

to the news every day

on his old radio

which never leaves his side

wrinkles and decades of sorrow

invade his features

He mutters:

Still, humans are so beautiful!

Beethoven and Kurds

I look at Beethoven’s figure

He appears sad

Crowds of Kurds

inspect the city center with their steps

Nothing dwells in them except longing

Beethoven cries

I look at the Rhine

cleaving the city into two

It appears sad 

Is it sad for the Euphrates?

The Euphrates is sad

Tomorrow You Will Be an Old Man

(For me, in a quarter of a century, more or less)

Tomorrow you will be an old man

The cane always with you

You will walk alone

You will mutter to yourself like all old geezers do

You will become obstinate, hard of hearing, and slow

You will ask for help when you need it

and no one will respond

You will dream of the past

and the good old days

While your grandson will think of the future

and days to come

You will curse this vapid generation

Repeating like a broken record

How wonderful our generation was

You will be the butt of jokes in the family

They will laugh at you and your positions

which you think are right on

Your lips will let a sarcastic smile

whenever they mention words like stubbornness,

vigor, and faith in the future

You might even laugh

Your bones will soften

Sicknesses will roam freely in your body

without permission

All your desires will be extinguished

except the desire to die

There will be no friend or companion

Loneliness will be your support and comrade

You will always be ready to depart

The threshold of the grave will entice you and keep you company

All the angels will betray you and leave

Only Azrael will approach you as a last friend

Perhaps you will say just as you are about to go:

If I die, burry me here in the strangers’ cemetery

Perhaps these words

will be you your final wish

My Mother’s Chants

1. The Vision Chant

This morning, my mother was sitting alone at home

Mending my brother Mahmoud’s pants

Torn by yesterday’s  mischief

The needle pierced her finger and warm blood flowed on the thread

The pants were stained and my mother’s thoughts were muddled

She swore to my father and the neighbors

that she saw me or my shadow

Or saw me without my shadow passing before her this morning

And when she saw me

she was so eager she was confused and was about to hug me

But the needle betrayed her and pierced her finger

Was I really there

or was it my mother’s heart?

2. The Longing Chant

Mother,

Thirty years and I am still running with a barefoot heart

Whenever I see a woman wearing a long dress

Or a white scarf on her head

I call out to her: Mother, mother

Mother!

Thirty years and six thousand miles

Exiled from roses, morning sunrise, and the face of angels,

mother’s face

Thirty years

Whenever I write about a woman

Whenever I draw a woman

I find myself writing about my mother

clothing the image with my mother’s colors

Thirty shrouds, thirty graves, thirty . . . 

I treat with hope and peace of mind

Whenever I lay my head

on my mother’s chest

3. The Passion Chant

The inscriptions on the walls of our mud house

The yellow paint on the door

The family picture carefully hung next to Imam Ali`s

The traces of a tattoo on the baking tin

The big quiet stone next to the door

Always ready to receive guests

Shelves crowded with old newspapers

The lamp philosophizing with a long luminous tongue

The hanging mat always ready for prayer

The sacred laugh that brought all this passion

and this weariness

is my mother`s laugh

[Translated from the Arabic by Sinan Antoon]