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Willow shade Nov 8
My dear,
In Shusha I am calling you proudly...

Karabakh is Azerbaijan!
How do we define a peace land?
And where is the home, craving to return?
Listen, what did the birds and trees say?

The true pleasures lie beneath the mountain
A single bound will take us there
It is our first homeland where we were born free.

Seagull migrates well,
Pine tree wouldn't move
Look, they reunion in one home garden

They imagine that all their 
Woes, hurts and indignities
Would not exist
in their imagined homeland.

Where we learnt justice at our mother's knee
return is easy, we just have to dare
The true pleasures lie beneath the mountain

In their minds, homeland
is in stasis.
The life they left is lingering
waiting for them to return.
Dedicate to a double festival in China 2020-- Chinese national holiday as well as Mid-Autumn Festival
Willow shade Sep 29
My homeland!
You have been watching your crippled borders
with wistful looks for gloomy centuries
Soon we will wipe your bloodred tears
after heroic and holy adventures

Yet you are in a deep disappointment
because of the hands lent to the unscrupulous
But never unlearn the destiny ever:
history is always betrayed,
talents are envied,
virtues are misused...
They love politics, not the history,
'Cause they have a historical fear
and it reminds them how they had been abused...
I have found even their "sumptuous" justice
which is carried in their ***** bulky pockets...

My dear,
It is very near,
In Karabakh, the stars will twinkle in a joy
50 million times I will mention your name
and to Jıdır we will be running bare feet.
The echoes will fill the preconceived ears
In Shusha, I will call you,
In Tabriz, we will meet...
Asyan Sep 15
I am from inky cities,
From steaming street pancakes and cold noodles.
I am from lonely alleys beyond that dark turn.
(shadowy, quiet,
filled with whispers of cats wild and shabby)
I am from square, paint-dried courtyards,
A secret hideout to breathe in the murmurs of ancient trees,
Only shared with shadow thieves,
Whose yellow eyes glow and ***** tails curl.  

I am from the mountain beyond the choking greyness,
From the spot atop the hills where city lights could be seen
In stealthy nights through rain and frost.
I am from candied haws and stinky bean curds,
From chalky evenings
Spent high inside a climbing gym
Wearied, exhausted, inside-out.

I am from the toxic city,
Swarming with masked humans and silenced voices.
I’m from albuterol and Ipratropium bromide,
Sick from the cupboard of budesonide;
Saved again by the sky-blue machine feeding marshmallow clouds
Into my heavy, wheezy lungs.

Upon winter, I travelled far, said farewell to the city
Where ten years of memories lie dusted, submerged.
Thus I am from the serene seal cove and clear turquoise waters,
where maple drips sweetly and pine needles rain,
from matted red-forest trails like a padded trampoline.
From the realm of black bears, red berries, and duck-duck-goose.

I said goodbye to the Chinese cats and Canadian bears,
And seized my pen to write the rest of my poem–
Because life, as they say,
“Is the art of drawing without an eraser”.
After George Ella Lyon "Where I'm From"
Haley Protega Aug 28
My gaze flickering across this landscape divine -

a whirlwind of sentiments unfolds.

Yet a single word echoes across my mind:

mine, mine, mine.

These hills, these trees, the distant shore,

as sure as the breeze caressing the steeple:

they are part of me, and more -

I am at home, safe, with my people.

I feel it, I know it, the comfort it sings -

whispers of safety, a lullaby to my broken wings:

familiar and gentle, deep in my bones,

the ancestry calling from ancient white stones.

Rosemary, lavender, olives, and fig trees,

they tell me of history, of proud victories;

of battles, of sadness, of stories untold,

the generations with lingering spirits of old.

This is my land, I belong here;

the soft hum of time; a smile and a tear.
Visignano, Istria (Croatia)

(Latin, mea terra = my land)
Willow shade Jul 23
It is me - Azerbaijan!
The hero of the history
On the shore of The Caspian
living manfully and free!

Many times enemies tried
to destruct and divide
Among three aggressors
we defended our pride

And the 'world community',
full of all shames and pity,
Just tell me a rotten lie
that support my integrity!

Let me hear your cry
for Karabakh, everyone!
Respect the real history!
Will we hear anyone?!

For centuries we were wronged
Will you wait for another?!
The son of my father's killer
Is beating my brother!

We faced through the history
Armenian hypocrisy
Put your hands on your conscience,
just show your democracy!

We condemn the historical aggressive policy of Armenia and the insensitive attitude of the world community.

Karabakh is Azerbaijan.
Stop believing provocative and fictitious history.
Research, respect and support the real history!
I always wanted to plant some trees
Wanted to make a habitat for the bees

But then some  humans came and destroyed my backyard
I was alone and was unable to guard

Some of my neighbors tried fixing the doing
But instead of cleaning the mess , the smoke started spewing

Due to the use of machines the nature was harmed
After alot of cleaning the smoke was calmed

Took a little hard work but the Homeland was good
Could finally see the forests with a nice and pleasant mood
Its how a group of people came together and cleaned their homeland after some hard work
Kurds are Birds
by Kajal Ahmad, a Kurdish poet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Per the latest scientific classification, Kurds
now belong to a species of bird!
This is why,
traveling across the torn, fraying pages of history,
they are nomads recognized by their caravans.
Yes, Kurds are birds! And,
even worse, when
there’s nowhere left to nest, no refuge for their pain,
they turn to the illusion of traveling again
between the warm and arctic sectors of their homeland.
So I don’t think it strange Kurds can fly but not land.
They wander from region to region
never realizing their dreams
of settling,
of forming a colony, of nesting.
No, they never settle down long enough
to visit Rumi and inquire about his health,
or to bow down deeply in the gust-
stirred dust,
like Nali.

And because Kajal mentioned Rumi, here are my translations of Rumi:

Raise your words, not their volume.
Rain grows flowers, not thunder.
—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

by Rumi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Birdsong relieves
my deepest griefs:
now I'm just as ecstatic as they,
but with nothing to say!
Please universe,
your poetry
through me!

Keywords/Tags: Kajal Ahmad, Kurdish, translation, Kurds, birds, nomads, caravans, refuge, homeland, fly, land, flying, landing, colony, nest, nesting, Rumi, Nali
Zywa Mar 30
On a swivel chair, I look around
the time capsule of my head
flies and devises stories

of memories and images
that pass, I travel
to my birth country

It does not exist, never
it has existed, it is a soup

of ingredients picked life-
long at my feet, cooked
in the pan of my skull

.....The fresh soup now
.....from my birth country
.... tastes different, really

.....I see it the plants and the varieties
“Chair car” (1965, Edward Hopper)

“Shirley: visions of reality” (2013, Gustav Deutsch)

Collection “Webgarden”
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