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  • وطنم
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وطنم

Asadullah Habib

وطنم قصۀ غمگينی است
برهمه باديه و جنگل و دشت
که نوشتن نتوان
***
خواب رنگين شب عيد منست
سربام و شب يک تابستان
اختران تا قد آدم پايين
عطر نمناک علفها با باد
خواب رنگين شب عيد که گفتن نتوان
***
وطنم بر ورق حادثه ماند
ارغوانی غزل گمشده ايست
که کسی تا خط آخر ننوشت
و کسی هم به تماميش نخواند
***
وطنم ، گاه سروديست ززردشت زمان
مردمان با نفس سوخته اش خوانده اند
همصدا گاه براهی تاريک
گاه با آتش افروخته اش خوانده اند
***
رويد از هر رگ سنگش گل آذر نوش* و
دره و دشت ، بهاران
نازبانوی نگارين سرو پاست
دلش از ديرگهان
روشن از بانگ دعاست
***
وطنم
مشعل عشق و اميد رستم
درسيه چاه که خاموش شدست
دفتر خاطره هايیست که در بارش وباد
بين ويرانۀ تقوينم فراموش شدست
***
وطنم قصۀ غمگينی است
تاکنون هيچکس آن را به تحمل نشنيد
وطنم آينۀ بشکستست
که در آن صورت خويش
کسی آن گونه که بودست نديد
***
وطنم آتش افروخته است
وطنم باغچۀ سوخته است
***
قصه گويان زمان را به کجا خواب ربود
که به گوشی نرسد زمزمۀ « بود نبود »
تاسری بر سر بالينی هست
وطنم قصۀ غمگينی است
_________________________________
*_ آذرنوش : يکی ازهفت آتشکدۀ بزرگ زردشتيان که در بلخ بوده .


Asadullah Habib

from Language for a New Century: Contemporary Poetry from the Middle East, Asia and Beyond, edited by Tina Chang, Nathalie Handal and Ravi Shankar (New York & London: W. W. Norton & Co, 2008)

Reproduced by kind permission of the author.

Tags:

Afghanistan myths nationalism tradition & heritage

Translations of this Poem

The Story of my Country

The story of my country
is written on its jungles and deserts—
so sorrowful it cannot be spoken.

Like the colourful dream before the night of Eid
when, on a summer night, I slept on the rooftop
watching stars nearly at the height of man,
the smell of wet grass carried on the wind.

My country is a book of disasters
or maybe a beautiful poem without end,
never to be completed, nor read to the end.

My country is an old hymn from the time of Zarathustra,
a hymn sung by tired men on a narrow path
lit by the sacred light of Zarathustra.

In my country, the flower of Azarnoosh
grows through the cracks of rocks
and in springtime, its valleys and deserts
are illuminated with colour,
sonorous with the prayers of Zarathustra.

The story of my country
is a fractured mirror,
a continuous fire,
a burning garden.

Where are the old storytellers
to tell the story of my country?
Where is one listener?

Source: from Language for a New Century: Contemporary Poetry from the Middle East, Asia and Beyond, edited by Tina Chang, Nathalie Handal and Ravi Shankar (New York & London: W. W. Norton & Co, 2008) . Translated by Bashir Sakhawarz, reproduced by kind permission of the translator.

About this poem

This poem, representing Afghanistan, is part of The Written World – our collaboration with BBC radio to broadcast a poem from every single nation competing in London 2012.

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Asadullah Habib

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