Three Poems from Rojava, Syria
And the knife is in your hand
You look just like Abraham, our prophet
I’m your old, old Ishmael.
Late at night
As if I’m a winter sparrow
Your hand draws me from my nest
Your hand closes around me
Something beats in your hand
And the quiver will remind you, for a hundred years.
to Khawla Ghazi
The young man who knelt on the edge of the asphalt
The young man whose hands were tied behind him
The young man who was dreaming of sparrows
Before being shot in the head
Before the murderer finished reciting his verses
A pebble ached beneath his knee
The young man shifted his weight
And prepared for the bullet.
Translations from the Kurmanji & Arabic
Read an interview with Taha Khalif from this same issue.