Ghazal

 

Esra Tekin

There is no desire to speak again; whom to ask, what to say?

I, who was treated ill, what should I not read, what not to say?

What should I tell that honey for me is like poison!

I cry; the fist of the cruel! It teases. Would I not say?

There is no one who knows my affliction, none I trust;

For what should I cry, laugh, die, and live today?

I and this faith; the grief of my failure, and this wishfulness;

I cannot do anything; and the words of affection, if only I could say.

O my heart, there was spring and there was this season of comfort.

But I cannot fly anymore. I want to know to whom should I say ...

Though I am quiet and cannot remember any song,

Yet all the time, something stirs in my heart that I should say.

Ah, remember the good day when this cage was broken;

That loneliness is gone, my delight, I sing the cares away.

I am a frail stick that trembles in air each time;

An Afghan daughter who can say wherever she needs to say.

It is night and these words come to me

By the call of my voice words come to me

What fire blazes in me, what water do I get?

From my body, the fragrance of my soul comes to me

I do not know from where these great words come

The fresh breeze takes loneliness away from me

That from the clouds of light comes this light

That there is no other wish that comes to me

The cry of my heart sparkles like a star

And the bird of my flight touches the sky

My madness can be found in his book

O do not say no, my master, O look once at me

It is like the day of judgment

Like doomsday my silence comes at me

I am happy that the giver gives me silk

And all night, all along these verses come to me

Nadia Anjuman

Nazm

 

Vladimir Polikarpov

O the one who hides in the mountain of unfamiliarity!

O you that sleep in the quietness of the pearl.

O who remains in the memories!

Bring the memories of transparent water.

In a river like forgetfulness, my mind is full of dust.

The voice that comes from the mountain makes me think

That from the one who destroys, how can you get your golden string?

That the storm of cruelty affects the faith.

How can you get the comfort of a moon from a silver leaf?

There is no death after this!

If the river stops to flow,

And if the clouds open a way to your heart,

And yes, if the daughter of the moon blesses you with her smiles.

If the mountains become soft, greenery grows,

Fruit grows.

And one was kind, from all the unkind.

Will the sun rise?

Will the memories rise with it too?

Those memories that are hidden from our eyes

And while frightened from the flood and the rain of cruelness

Will the light of hope appear?

Nadia Anjuman

HISTÓRIAS TRÁGICAS

  

Foto de Arquivo

Guerra da Coreia

Oh histórias trágicas

Encontraram uma morada em nossos corações.

Esses olhos tristes, essas bochechas fundas e amarelas

São as marcas sombrias de tua presença

Oh galhos da dor

Cem primaveras e outonos indo e vindo

Brotos murchos com corações dilacerados

Cem bloqueios e cem caravanas passam

O Faraó morre e a história de Nimrod termina

Ainda que estejas jovem e fresco

Recém saído do útero do jardim

Oh miséria ardente

Deixe a expansão de nossos corações

Não são as únicas coisas pelas quais vale a pena queimar

Por uma única vez, passe na casa de outro

Oh histórias trágicas

Sua companhia nos oprime

Se não buscam uma nova casa, devem ter cuidado

Amanhã vamos deixar as tristes ruínas da vida

E vocês ficarão miseráveis e descobertas

No limbo do tempo

Sem qualquer morada

Nadia Anjuman

A Voiceless Cry

 

Photoplotnikov

The sound of green footsteps is the rain

They're coming in from the road, now

Thirsty souls and dusty skirts brought from the desert

Their breath burning, mirage-mingled

Mouths dry and caked with dust

They're coming in from the road, now

Tormented-bodied, girls brought up on pain

Joy departed from their faces

Hearts old and lined with cracks

No smile appears on the bleak oceans of their lips

Not a tear springs from the dry riverbeds of their eyes

O God!

Might I not know if their voiceless cries reach the clouds,

the vaulted heavens?

The sound of green footsteps is the rain.

Nadia Anjuman

MEMÓRIAS DE LEVE TRISTEZA

  

Oh exilados da montanha do esquecimento!

Oh joia de seus nomes, dormindo na lama do silêncio

Oh memórias destruídas, memórias de leve tristeza

Na mente turva de uma onda no mar do esquecimento

Onde está o transparente, a corrente que flui de teus pensamentos?

Que mão ladrona saqueou a estátua de ouro puro de teus sonhos?

Nesta tempestade que origina a opressão

Para onde foi teu barco, tua serena lua prateada do barco?

Depois desse frio cortante que dá à luz a morte –

O mar deveria desprender a calma

Deveria a nuvem libertar o coração nodoso de tristezas

Deveria a donzela da lua nos brindar o amor, ofertar um sorriso

Deveria a montanha adoçar seu coração, adornar-se de verde,

Tornar-se frutífera –

Qual de teus nomes, na altura do topo,

Se torna brilhante como o sol?

O amanhecer de tuas memórias

Memórias de leve tristeza

Nos olhos dos peixes cansados pelas inundações e

Temerosos da chuva da opressão,

A esperança é refletida?

Oh exilados da montanha do esquecimento! 

 Nadia Anjuman

Flowers of disgrace

 

Aimer 

 … as in a delirium I try to explain

the importance of playing the piano, but

I can’t sit in front of him,

afraid that in my blurred eyes he will see

puddles of overwhelming sadness…

The sounds of the sonata arch over this earth

where a woman’s life can be cut off like a flower,

like the dark flower of hope…

… God, where is all this junk coming from,

this poison like a black-as-death coffee?

Where do these flowers blossom?

Why do they do not become insane?

What tables do they beautify

through endless summers and winters…

Fly, black bird,

Across the bloody sky of the East,

Beyond the fog of November,

Where the smell of disgraced flowers

And the sharp claws of the gardener

Will never reach you…

Nadia Anjuman

Songstress

Within its starkwhite ribcage, how the heart

must flutter wildly, O, and always sing

against the pressing darkness: all it knows

until at last it feels the numbing sting

of death. Then life's brief vision swiftly passes,

imposing night on one who clearly saw.

     Death held your bright heart tightly, till its maw–

     envenomed, fanged–could swallow, whole, your Awe.

And yet it was not death so much as you

who sealed your doom; you could not help but sing

and not be silenced. Here, behold your tomb's

white alabaster cage: pale, wretched thing!

     But you'll not be imprisoned here, wise wren!

     Your words soar free; rise, sing, fly, live again.

Nadia Anjuman

UM PRANTO SURDO

 

O som dos verdes rastros está na chuva

Chega até nós desde a estrada

Almas sedentas e saias empoeiradas chegaram do deserto

Seu hálito ardente e a miragem-fundida

De suas bocas secas e cobertas de pó

Nos chegam, agora, desde a estrada

Seus corpos atormentados, meninas criadas na dor

A alegria longe de seus rostos

Corações velhos e repletos de rachaduras

Não surgem sorrisos nos oceanos inóspitos de seus lábios

Nem uma lágrima brota do seco canal de seus olhos

Oh, Deus!

Poderia ignorar se seus gritos surdos que saltaram do céu,

Alcançam as nuvens?

O som dos verdes rastros permanece na chuva

                                                                        Nadia Anjuman

The Fall of a Lark

 

"My wings are closed...I cannot fly,"

She wrote before she plummeted,

A creature less of earth than sky,

A lark that bullies killed with stones,

She fell to earth, her music stilled,

A broken heap of shattered bones.

What gift like hers endures for long

Where ignorance flings stones at art,

And bullies put an end to song?

To choose to sing's an act of will;

She had to know instinctively

A singing bird's the first they kill.

Nadia Anjuman

Hawkgirl

  

A captured, wild, dark-haired bird,

she restrained the hawk inside

because she liked to kiss

the calloused knuckles of history

falling like rain

upon the rapture

of her upturned face.

Ever the hunter, she chose

her perch, waited, and stared

beyond the immediate

loss, pain, indifference, hatred,

rising like a titan before her

the silhouette of patriarchy

always eclipsed the sun

but never blocked out the full view

of the deepening, cloudless azure sky

or the magnitude of the ever-embracing horizon

which welcomes her return to flight

in the glory of freedom.

Nadia Anjuman

Um poema

 

Donell Gumiran
 

Não quero abrir a boca

O que devo cantar?

Eu, odiada pela vida,

Não há diferença entre cantar e não cantar.

Por que eu devo falar sobre a doçura?

Quando eu sinto tanta amargura?

Oh, a festa do opressor.

Ele tocou na minha boca.

Não tenho nem um parceiro nessa vida.

Para quem eu posso ser doce?

Não há diferença entre falar, rir.

Morrer, ser.

Eu com minha solidão exausta

Com dor e tristeza.

Nasci para nada.

A boca deve ser selada.

Oh, meu coração, você sabe que é primavera.

E hora de comemorar.

O que devo fazer com uma asa presa?

Que não me deixa voar?

Estive quieta muito tempo.

Mas eu nunca esqueço a melodia,

Porque cada momento murmuro

As músicas do meu coração

Que me lembram do

Dia que eu vou quebrar a gaiola.

Voar dessa solidão

E cantar com melancolia.

Eu não sou um Álamo fraco.

Que qualquer vento vai abalar.

Eu sou uma mulher afegã.

Então, só faz sentido gemer.

Nadia Anjuman