Tr Mohsen Beni Saeed

Part One

I woke up to the groan of a shadow, crawling above the window. I wore my inside-out coat, and hung over my shoulder a piece of an old moon. I looked at my face in the mirror, and found in it a map of a city unbuilt yet.

A man came in to me, wearing an hourglass, and said,

‘have you forgotten to switch the wind off?’

I replied,

‘wind is not to be switched off, but rather nurtured.’

He shook his head and took out of his pocket a sparrow made from words, and flew away.

I walked in his footsteps, and he led me to a singing well. I sat at the edge, and washed my face with its sound.

A girl in a dress made from perfume ash emerged, and said,

‘if you want to forget, plant a flower in your ear.’

That I did, then I slept.

In my dream, trees were walking, rivers climbing stairs, and the moon writing letters to me on my forehead.

Part Two

I woke up this time in a wall-less room, whose ceiling was a mirror that breaks whenever I looked at it.

On the ground, books sprouted from water leaves, whose pages whispered songs that have no language.

I took off my heart and hung it on an air nail, then I walked barefoot on an unfinished idea.

In the corner, I saw stairs leading to nowhere. At the seventh step, a woman sat, embroidering clouds with blue thread, and said,

‘do not ask me about the path, the path is that which asks you.’

I replied,

‘what if I have gone astray?’

She smiled, and pointed at my chest, and said,

‘if the body has gone astray, follow the sound.’

Then I shut my eyes, and walked inside myself.

Sarmad Saleem, born in Shingal, is a Yazidi writer and poet from Iraq. He hold a BA in education and Psychology from University of Duhok. His poems have been translated into English, Hebrew, Kurdish, and Persian.