WINDS HOWL THROUGH
THE MANSIONS by Bejan Matur
When we were born
It was our mother
Who had caskets
made for us
And filled them
with silver mirrors
Dark blue stones
And fabrics
smuggled from Aleppo
Later
She would put us
in those caskets
And whisper in our
ears
Of roads
And winds
And mansions.
To stop us being
lonely in the dark
She would add our
childhood too
To comfort us
With that
childhood.
But when we were
left
In the long river
whose waters streamed
With blood that
poured from ritual razor-slashes on our backs
Our mother never
wanted such an outrage
And that is why
We kept telling
the waters
While she was
sleeping
We moved far away.
What’s left from
that flight
Everything,
everyone is here.
I am here
My brothers and
sisters are here with their loss
My mother with her
dresses
My brother with
his fear of war
My father’s here,
but not awake
Around me the
world has shrunk
All like a dream
That hurts the
longer it lasts
I
Our mother
Stroking her black
velvet dress
And veiling her
gaze with her hair
Would remember our
father:
She said he was on
a white mountain
A white mountain
getting smaller every spring
II
When our brother
Older than all of
us
And afraid of the
distant war
Never came home
We too feared the
war.
But it wasn’t war
that kept him away.
On his way back
He fell asleep
with his horse
On the snowy
mountain facing our father’s
As our mother’s
face grew thinner
And our mother’s
shoulders shrank
We wondered which
mountain to look at
III
On the long
veranda of our house
As her velvet
dress grew longer
Her silver
hairband heavier
Her silver belt
looser
Our mother looked
more and more
Like the mountains
she watched.
In spring her
shell was wearing out
But we couldn’t
reach her.
She was dying
Pining away
She never appeared
again on the veranda
IV
Lost every winter
Returning in
spring
Our mother became
a tree
A tattooed oak
Her moaning in our
ears
V
Every night
In her black
velvet dress
Our mother wandered
among the mountains
She was a rootless
oak
Silent, now and
then weeping
Before we parted
We would gather in
our mother’s shadow
And whisper among
ourselves
Please God forgive
us
Spare our house
Don’t touch our
veranda
Only there can we
laugh
Only there can we
be really silent
Only there can we
say what we like
And even if we
don’t touch her
We can see our
mother from afar
VI
When the cold
spell began
Horsemen came to
take us away
Horsemen old and
strange
Who made us afraid
Snow veiled their
eyes.
Without a word
Not looking at our
little hands
They came to carry
us off to the mansions
Mansions howling
with winds
VII
While our mother
Slept peacefully
Between our father
and brother
We went far away
with the old horsemen.
Our necks ached
with looking round
Our eyes narrowed
at every bend.
But in vain
We wept in vain
Our sickness was
in vain
The horsemen had
lost the way
We could never go
back
VIII
We were like rocks
rolling from the mountains.
We four sisters
In a valley of
deepening shadow
Searched for the
beds
No longer ours
Searched for days.
With every
mountain we crossed
We were so far
from each other
So alone with
ourselves
IX
No beginning no
end
No inside no outside
There we were
In the midst of
that world of stone.
As our paths
lengthened
Our mother’s
tattoos grew darker
X
We would all
separate
Where the road
split.
But who would be
the first
The first to be
afraid
Of the way
The night
And the old
horseman.
We were in no
order
We trembled at
every parting of the ways.
I was the last
The narrow road
stretched before me
Gathering strength
from their grief
I was the
traveller
© Bejan Matur ©
translated by Ruth Christie
NB: more of Bejan's poems in English and the Kurdish originals are available here: Versopolis
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