To Jack Hirschman –  By: Adel Khozam / Translated by Juzer Fakhri

 
To Jack Hirschman
 
Hounded with loud, resonating voices, the poet sets out of his house only to find the war raging on in his neighborhood. Dirty hands of obsession playing with fire extend to light the flame whenever it dims and the thunder which blinds the ears becomes louder – emanating from dark corners. All the while, the evil entities whose greed lies in inflaming the cakes of evil are hatching rumors. They are busy domesticating implacability so that their weapon continues to remain manifest in stimulation and provocation. This hatred is their most preferred musical instrument to play the tune of sedition and strife. The poet is unable to stop this turmoil but with a poem written from those feelings which spring out from his heart. A poem written with such ink which flows from imagination onto the clear white paper and then shines like a sun – erasing and destroying any signs of slander. The poet writes his initial words but the cadence of his poem is disturbed whenever the armies keep closing in with heavy weaponry shaking the earth to the core. So much so that the letter spread out on the page fall into a single line and truth becomes a blinded struggle. At that moment, the word love turns into ‘war’.
The poet, who is now quite far from his home, disappears behind the smoke and describes the terrifying occurrences he has witnessed before they take place thus:
The fire burns men as though they are locusts
Displaced queues walk against the wind without a destination and without provision
Rhetorical slogans take pride on the victory over blood and they are the adversaries of lost peace.
With his own eyes, the poet sees and hears the brokers of war. They are clinking glasses of wine over the bodies of the degenerating sacrifices of this war. Their main ambition is nothing but gathering more and more wealth – dirty wealth. Behind them are the generals standing with their black medals and decorations while their hearts have turned to stone so much so that the cries of a child and the wailings of a mother do not perturb them.
Strangled by what he has seen, the poet proceeds towards the last stage of his wandering. There he shall write about the philosophy of starvation – that it is indeed the origin of all wars which have been led by horsemen throughout history and none has ever gained any profit out of it. Just like the war scatters casualties around, likewise is its behavior with the armies themselves when they return to their homelands – with a realization that they now have become killers and criminals. They also realize that the huge game of war was played by larger heads and they have been used as puppets and pawns. The war was for the sake of such endings which had no place for leaders. The disaster is that the door of starvation cannot be closed with satiation or fulfilling the hunger; but it is through contentment, refection and perseverance. This is why dominant leaders are described as wise when they tend to stay away from war while most of the others do not bring to their countries but desolation and regrets.
Then the poet spared a thought for his personal hunger and starvation towards the meanings, reality and understanding and that how the current situation has been destroyed within the duration of an imbalanced life whose branches have been broken due to the unwanted winds which blow from sick hearts and are thirsty for drink from the places of destruction.
After witnessing the wars, and drinking in the destruction on the streets, the poet rests on the stick of hope and crosses through uneven streams with its help – leaping and jumping over hurdles and jabbing the thin trunks and branches of trees to awaken them from the slumbers of fear and so that they may return to the experience of a new life.
The poet from the depths of his hunger:
The burning coal of war is doused by tears
Thence cries the cloud which is suffocated by smoke
Likewise cries the leaf whose skin is now burnt
Then rises the sun of hope from the smiling of a child
And the rose blooms, shining and with a fragrance – amidst the ashes
And the chirping of a sparrow rises until it is heard across the world…
 
Translated by Juzer Fakhri
 
 
 

 

Adel Khozam

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