Two Exhausted Bodies
Xoşman Qado, translated by Zêdan Xelef and David Shook
My insides are a flooded field. Though the field outside is larger and I have played there, laid
down there, ran through it over and again, I have never spilled over its boundary.
I don’t know why pebbles
keep tumbling from my ears.
It’s been happening since yesterday.
They don’t hurt my ears.
My ears don’t ache… I just feel thirsty.
I often miss myself.
Recently I realized
that’s why I drink water before bed.
My friend’s question—Why do we think about our past, these days, especially our childhood?—compelled us to open all the doors and windows. I don’t know if he swats the stars away from
his face like me.
This morning he was not aware
that a star had fallen between us while we slept.
We both forgot
to look for it.
Neither of us stumbled as we left the room.
I wish everything had been stolen
like my shoe at the mosque—
Even so, I didn’t return home barefoot; my insides were enough for me then, and I didn’t ever
allow myself to miss myself.
I wanted to tumble from my insides,
but many things must be tightened
when they come loose.
That inner distance, neither loosening
nor tightening.
Perhaps the boundary between two fields was too small a space for deception.
Du Laşên Westîyaî
Hundirê min zevîyek e ku ber bi rijandinê ve diçe, tev li ku li derve zevî ji min mezintir e û gellek
caran jî min tê de lîstiye, baz daye û pal daye; lê ez tu carî ji sînorê wê ve nerijîyame…!
Nizanim çima ji doh ve
Zixur ji guhên min dirijin,
Guhên min birîn nabin
Û ne jî diêşin… hew ez tî dibim.
Ez bêrîya xwe dikim gellek caran,
Vê dawîyê min nas kir
Bê çima berî razanê ez avê vedixwim.
Pirsa hevalê min “Van rojan çima tiştên me yên berê têne bîra me, bi taybetî dema em zarok
bûn,” dihişt em derî û pencereyan tevan vekin. Nizanim qey ew jî wekî min hîn stêran ji ser rûyê
xwe diqewirîne.
Vê sibehê wî nizanîbû ku stêrkek
Di navbera min û wî de ketibû, çaxa em razayî bûn,
Me her duyan jî ji bîr kir
Ku em lê bigerin û kes ji me
Neterpilî dema ku em ji odeyê derdiketin.
Xwezî hemû tişt bihatana dizîn
Wekî sola min a ku li mizgeftê hate dizîn,
Tevî wilo jî, ez pêxwas venegerîyam malê; hundirê min têra min dikir wê çaxê û tu carî min
nedihişt ez bêrîya xwe bikim.
Min dixwest ez ji hundirê xwe bikevim,
Lê gellek tişt gava sist dibin
Divê meriv wan bikişîne,
Cudabûna me ne sistbûn bû
Û ne jî kişandin bû
Sînorê du zevîyan bû, belkî têra xapandinê nedikir.
Zêdan Xelef was born in the village of Izêr, on Shingal Mountain in northern Iraq, in 1995. Displaced from his home by the Islamic State’s attempt to exterminate the Êzîdî, he arrived with his family to the Chamishko IDP camp in late 2014. He studied translation at the University of Duhok, and his current projects include translating Whitman’s Song of Myself into Kurmanji and a selection of poets from Rojava into English. He recently moved to Sulaimani to work for Kashkul, the center for art and culture at the American University of Iraq, Sulaimani. His poems have appeared in World Literature Today and on the Poetry Foundation website.
David Shook is a poet, translator, and editor who recently returned to California after spending a year and a half in the Kurdistan Region of Iraq. The most recent of their 14 book-length translations are Jorge Eduardo Eielson’s Room in Rome and Pablo d’Ors’ The Friend of the Desert.
