Adi Magazine

Two poems translated from the Pashto by Shafiqa Khpalwak

Last night in my dreams, I went home. I walked into our garden, cried, and said, “I was dying to smell the flowers.” Then I went to my room and wrote a poem. In the morning, I woke up on the fifth floor in a hotel room in Albania, where I fled to as a refugee from Afghanistan last year. The sunlight was coming through the window’s white curtains. I closed my eyes and wanted to feel at home. But home was nowhere. I then realized that after August 15, 2021, my parents also left that house in Kabul. It was a rental house. We lived there for ten years. My father loves gardening. He kept a variety of flowers. In the summer, he would make a bouquet for me almost every day.

In Kabul, I woke up many times to the sounds of explosions. I have seen those flowers trembling with the heavy waves the explosions make. Sometimes they even smell like gunpowder. But those flowers were mine, I loved them, and they inspired me to bloom despite the war and death. 

Albania is a garden. One sees flowers, lakes, forests, and the ocean in every corner of the country. But this beautiful place doesn’t feel like home. In reality, artists and poets belong everywhere. They shall never be defined by a particular geography. But places are like poems. There are your poems, and there are the poems of others. Other poets might write extraordinary pieces. When you read that poem, you might see a part of yourself in it. You might love it. It might touch your heart. Yet, it is not your poem. 

The mountains of Kabul were mine. The flowers full of dust and shaken by the explosions were my poems. And I don’t have them anymore. Since I arrived here, I have been writing less. I only wrote seven poems in eight months. My mind is incapable of processing what has happened to us. If I feel the heaviness of those events, I will go insane. When emotions, feelings, thoughts, and imaginations are incomplete in your head, how will you be able to put them on paper? I am scared of my mind. This loss is so heavy that I may fall. Whenever I think of grieving, it feels like walking to the ocean barefoot. I can’t swim. I won’t survive. These two poems are little glimpses of the fire burning in my heart. They are tiny drops of grief drowning me like an ocean. 

This was my first experience translating poetry into English myself. I feel that I didn’t do justice to my original poems. Or maybe the joy of reading and writing poetry in the language that we dream in is irreplaceable. And can never be found even in a perfect translation. 

Perhaps eventually I will write poems about these days. “Tomorrow” I will write about my “Yesterday.” The place I’m craving. I will take a walk in our garden. Pick up a white flower, put it in my hair. Look at the giant mountains of Kabul and write a poem about Hope… 

—Shafiqa Khpalwak

I Shall Write A Poem

Before I wear the dress of yellow leaves 
And the scarf of wet soil 
I shall write a poem
On grief, grief, grief 
A brutal wind 
Whirling in my veins 

I shall write a poem 
On the sorrow of a sparrow 
Whose feathers turned to ashes
Before the arrival of spring 

I shall write a poem 
On Kabul 
What I vividly recall
Like the first day of my school 

I shall write a poem 
On my voice
Which is wounded 
Like the songs of a broken nightingale

I shall write a poem 
On a soldier 
Who was stabbed in the back 
By those whom he had trusted
Before the war began 

I shall write a poem 
On lost love
Fleeing from the window of my room 

I shall write a poem 
On the deaths
That in my life I experienced again, and again

I shall write a poem 
On the phantoms 
That I never understood
But devoured my soul 

I shall write a poem 
About myself 
The one who was always a stranger to me

I shall write a poem 
Before wearing the dress of yellow leaves 
I shall write a poem
I shall write a poem 

باید شعر ولیکم
 
له دې مخکې چې د ژېړو پاڼو واغوندم کمیس
او د خړې خاورې، 
لوند ټیکری پر سر کړم
باید شعر ولیکم 
په درد، درد، درد
چې د بې رحمه شمال غوندې مې،
رګونو کې څرخېږي
 
 باید شعر ولیکم
د هغې مرغۍ په ویر
چې بڼکې یې له پسرلي مخکې 
ایره شوې 
 
باید شعر ولیکم 
په کابل 
چې د مکتب د لومړۍ ورځې غوندې 
لږ، لږ رایادېږي
 
باید شعر ولیکم 
په غږ مې 
چې ټپي دی 
لکه سندرې د زخمي بلبلې
 
باید شعر ولیکم 
د هغه عسکر په حس
چې له جنګ مخکې یې
غوټ په ملا مات کړ 
 
باید شعر ولیکم 
په بایللې مینه 
چې د خونې 
له کړکۍ مې والوته 
 
باید شعر ولیکم 
په مرګ 
چې په ژوند کې مې بیا، بیا تجربه کړ
 
باید شعر ولیکم 
په هغه احساس 
جې نه پوهېدم څه دی؟ 
خو ارواح مې وخوړله 
 
باید شعر ولیکم
په خپل ځان 
چې له مانه تل پردی و
 
باید شعر ولیکم…
د ژېړو پاڼو، له اغوستلو مخکې 
باید شعر ولیکم… 
باید شعر ولیکم…

The Well

My feet sink 
Black mud reaches my ankles 
The blood is knotted, knotted, knotted 
Ah! 
It is not blood 
But black mud stuck in my veins 

I touch the wall
The wall is cold
The wall is wet
The wall is hungry 
The wall devours my hands
I collect my sleeves

My eyes rotate 
How small the circle is above me
I am enormous 
I am vast
How am I imprisoned here?

I see the blue sky above
The lines of white clouds 
And a sparrow
Dancing!
Ah!
The whole circle is whirling with the bird

And I am enormous 
And I am vast 
Captive in a small circle
I bite my nails

Devour myself
A small sparrow flies 
A little sparkle

I am swirling 
I am sinking
Remaining in the well 

څاه

پښې مې ډوبې 
تورې خټې مې رسېږي تر بیډیو 
وینه غوټه، غوټه، غوټه
اه
وینه نه ده! 
همدا خټې دي رګونو کې ایسارې 
 
دیوال لمس کړم
دیوال یخ دی 
دیوال لوند دی
دیوال وږی
دیوال غبرګ لاس رانه خوري
له دیواله مې لستوڼي ټولومه
 
دواړه سترګې څرخومه
څه وړه ده! دایره ده!
او زه لویه…
او زه ستره
دلته څرنګه ایساره؟ 
 
پس شینکی اسمان راښکاري 
تکې سپینې کرښې وریځې 
یو نیمه مرغۍ الوځي
نڅېږي 
اه 
مکمله دایره ورسره څرخي
 
او زه لویه
او زه ستره 
وړکۍ دایرې یوړم
زه نوکان خورم
زه مې ځان خورم
یو خاشه مرغۍ الوځي
یو خاشه ذره ځلېږي
زه څرخېږم
زه ورکېږم
زه په څاه کې پاتې کېږم…