Friday, January 1, 2021





A Wound Called Afrin*


I shall restore my heart

from the devastation it received through the years.

I shall remove the dark stains of sadness,

the blue bruises of pain.

From its walls, I shall remove the dry crusts

and the deep wrinkles that appeared on its skin.

I shall remove the decaying flesh,

the fat built up in its arteries.

Yet, I am keeping a single deep wound

that keeps growing in my heart,

a wound called Afrin!

I shall never let anybody to mess with it,

to come close to it,

or to try to heal it.

It is the wound of my heart alone.

With it, my heart‘s beats gets regulated.

For its sake, my hearts lives.

*Afrin is the city of the poet




As A Kurd Would Love His Stubbornness!


I love these rugged mountains

And these slender rivers,

with wobbly knees pouring into their charnel house.

I love these stones that defies sunrays in the midsummer heat,

and the frosty cold in the midwinter chills.

I love this soil that resembles my body

And this land that foremost means the heart.

I love this dust, a kohl for my eyes it is

And this air, a balm for my lungs it is.

I love this skimpy terebinth

And the fragrant hawthorn.

I love cacti and its thorns,

Olives and its yearnings.

I love this thin reed that serenades all the time on the river bank,

This dark swamp where frogs continuously croak.

I love the daisy flower that resembles the whiteness of my heart,

And these tulips that fraternize with my blood.

I love these mud houses

And these tents, fluttering on the outskirts of forgotten villages.

I love this generous vine, bequeather of grapes and wine.

I love these yellow grain spikes, bequeather of food and bread.

I love these swaggering kite birds,

And these cicadas, continuously singing.

I love my land

From top to bottom

and from bottom to top

Just as a Kurd would love his stubbornness!







I pass along the madhouse.

From the third-floor’s window

a woman shows up.

She cries: Help, I need help.

I say to her: I need that also!

She raises a wry laugh

And asks me: Are you mad like me?

All seriousness, I answer: Yes, sure.

She shakes her head and says:

Then, we will prevail!

To here, I raise the sign of victory

that is going to lose anyway and I go ahead.


Translated by Azad Akkash




HUSSEIN HABASCH is a poet from Afrin, Kurdistan. He currently lives in Bonn, Germany. His poems have been translated into English, German, Spanish, French, Chinese, Turkish, Persian, Albanian, Uzbek, Russian, Italian, Bulgarian, Lithuanian, Hungarian, Macedonian, Serbian, Polish and Romanian, and has had his poetry published in a large number of international anthologies. His books include: Drowning in Roses, Fugitives across Evros River, Higher than Desire and more Delicious than the Gazelle's Flank, Delusions to Salim Barakat, A Flying Angel, No pasarán (in Spanish), Copaci Cu Chef (in Romanian), Dos Árboles and Tiempos de Guerra (in Spanish), Fever of Quince (in Kurdish), Peace for Afrin, peace for Kurdistan (in English and Spanish), The Red Snow (in Chinese), Dead arguing in the corridors (in Arabic) and Drunken trees (in Kurdish). He participated in many international festivals of poetry including: Colombia, Nicaragua, France, Puerto Rico, Mexico, Germany, Romania, Lithuania, Morocco, Ecuador, El Salvador, Kosovo, Macedonia, Costa Rica, Slovenia, China, Taiwan and New York City.


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