Yildiz Çakar

If you could, I would ask for a homeland

When the sound of rain reaches to the snowy slopes

When loneliness becomes a node and grows in the chest

When your steps move in emptiness and make you regret, life!

And when you want to return for a couple of word, some jokes, a cup of tea, a cup of coffee

With green-red clothes, under the flag of independence, right here, by the river of Tigris 

And when you want to say “children will not die anymore on their mothers’ lap, 

And when you want to say “all the doors of the city are open from four parts of the heart”

And when you want to say “I’ve laid a seed to the ground”

The fire of Nawrouz is alive in twelve month on the castle 

Yes, I would ask you for a homeland

When the sound of rain reaches the snowy slopes,

When the pain becomes a hidden enemy, and grows in the chest, and grows

When your eyes are looking for someone in the streets of Amed, and when life makes you regret it!

And when you want to return, a return for a kiss, few sentences from a point, some deserts, a walk and a heart 

Yes, fromPeyas till DereCiye, you’ve come with rough steps, you walked, and walked 

Like a raindrop, like softness of the willow, like before the hurricane 

Before Amed

Acorn, 

Missing in distance, 

Someone, someone alone, 

Maybe, 

Far from you in two steps, and deep to you in three 

If you could, I would ask for a homeland

From a foreigner, in front of iron flowers, a wave of pain and a handful salt

Not shedding, not raining, not moaning,

do not moan alone and do not moan by Cizrawi’s voice, it is night, homesickness, and it is rain!

I knowpoem is anunsharp hatchet, on my life’s core!

I want a rupture, a scream, a sieve, 

That much wishing for a homeland, 

Not shedding, not raining, it is moaning,

do not moan alone and do not moan by the sound of an antique, pain, you and I!

If you could, I would ask you for a homeland,

When the sound of rain reaches the snowy slopes

When loneliness becomes a node and grows in the chest, grows itself

When a poet sits before “dawudi”

And design barren words, one by one

At one noon, quiet, quiet, with the possibility of you to come back to Amed

When you do not hear the voice of creatures and the creators, 

When the sound of bowl of Suse’s water 

does not ring out again in Mergehmet, 

When the water does not flush by your foot, 

Right here, at this foothold, behind the tree

When you sit and do not stare at me, 

That much begging for a breath 

All the wedding dresses of burned town too…

If you could, I would ask for a homeland, 

I do not know how long you have been here, 

At this morning, an anger carried its tent, 

Arm to arm, embers fall down from the heart!

A circle from sand, a people from water, a circle from heart,

Now you dig my finger…

I do not know how my finger is more determined than my heart.

Search it for me, where I lost my heart.

I do not know if you have ever listened to the night, or the song of snow bird

Have you ever hosted your own life in your bossom, with your bloody body, bare feet? 

Have you ever knitted the difference of walnut and fig? 

Have you ever walked under the rain that reaches the snowy slopes, without fear…

Pings, sharpening the blades

And how the witnessing of walls is simple to you!

Tell me, someone!

Poor! 

When he says “I am dying, dying by a door”!

My need is a homeland, without border, without border, some soil, some tulips

Red, yellow, green from the white of eyes, 

Why your funny words hit the mountains! Why sorrow becomes peace at nights

Why the night slowly falls upon me, wistful, why it names the lyrics

And one by one bows the heads before the feet. 

Oh missing, missing that arises from the pockets of hearts, from days, from notebooks, from homesickness… 

Skein was growing, rain was turning into black, missing was surprising 

The pain was becoming ordinary, a simple word. 

And if you could, I would ask you only for one thing, 

Can your hand’s foam be my gift? 

I will take my left eye for the unity 

How simple the streets words to you, the suburbs of basil, fabricated poppies, 

Empty goblets, full ashtrays, burned dreams, sand, soil

Do you know that no warmer nest than the soil? 

And no colder nest than the soil! 

If you could, I would ask you for a homeland,

Besides the name, surname and a crown…