Groan

He waved
the day he was going rebelling to the mountain,
kissed me on my forehead
surrounded me with his arms
to implant in my back
the finger's pain over the years.
We were alone
killing time
making time's hands drunk
writing
singing together
he heard me in an instant
an old symphony
the forefathers were involved in,
inspired the fingers
became a prophet, playing on the strings
a song for Shivan
called in Kurdish
"Havale bar giranim"
Followed by
"Welat", then "Ciwan Haco"
to thunder the sky upon us
a bridge of tears.
Under olive trees, we were singing
in the land
which my father inherited from a spiteful father
we drew a dream
on red dust
carved our names on an old trunk
to keep the memory
of something missing.
Told me a secretly
to write characters on the chest of a crazy man
to write the story of spite
to a kind mother
to write a history
of the land
for people
who know only the language of the graves.
He stands as a blatant fool
"Here I am. Hey land!
Here I am. Hey sky!
I am a bird
accepting to be slaughtered to be humble
I am denying my body, for an unbelieving soul
here I am
releasing the groan of the Ink from my fingers
to write an epic
of blood and tyranny.
This I am, who are you?"
He put the tambur on his shoulder
then he said
"I hand you my pen
If I don't come back
write to my mother about me
and tell her that I found myself..."
and started walking
singing loudly
"Ey Reqip Her"
to leave me silent and alone,
with no words.