Sunday, March 20, 2016

The Journey of Kurd

-Angry at wind-

 I  saw, with my own eyes 
 The unsung hero ,Astyages,  (The wise king whom,we  hated- unfairly.)
 Standing - upon  the ruined walls of  Ecbatan.
Under the fog of the cruelest time,
Shedding  silver  tears and
 Bleeding memories , in rhyme with
the  whining winds-  crept down the mountains-
Staring at the wreckage of  his court 
Where he delivered once
 The most disgraceful  schooling of all time .
And as I nodded, in sorrow- to the silver tears,
The wise king looked back with a brittle gasp.
 “ I did not fear any of her curses,
But -rather, I  cry,
 For my talented  disciple  -Cyrus.   (Cyrus The Great, who -dis-crowned- him...Cyropaedia-  Xenophon)
Shed the holiest  piece  of my soul:
The wisdom of my court, and
 Chivalry code-
 In the school of Medes' sobriety. 

Nevertheless, I learnt, Medes,
 Must have reached their destiny ;
  The due date of split -and- depletion,
 Where - there were no roots
And books to clutch.
(They gave away them ,willingly- Soon. )
 On the course of the cruel-time- decay
Hence, stranded in-the exact time of,
 The snowy mountains of North and West  ;
 the resorts of ancestors’ holy sage,
Where season came and season gone,
Upon the churning topography- 
Of the  anguished motherland,
Prior to the start of this chronic chaos,
 Or being readied for the journey,
 through the veins of tribes,
Of their siblings -  Gordyae- and others-
  A thousand  habitants of the Sad Heights.
To ignite-in- the blend -
 Life and Trait of a new breed ,
To set off on the trails to nowhere -
The never-land , where-henceforth
-Were, in their home, ruled over by strangers:
 Conquerors  and patriarchs ,
who were delighted soon by
their consent of surrender,
By the act of a deadly vow :
“There , for thou, I shall  grow,
Trees  of Life in the golden fields,  
(Like the virgins of the temples-) SOON-
Blessed with ridge and furrow,
Shall water them in the dead of the season
With the streams of sorrow.
And for the eastern borders
 Of Thy Empire we shall,
Build a giant  fence of men,
Eclipsed themselves
In your shadow
And for the southern-- border ,
we are on the head of mercenaries;
My brothers, my cousins,
 And the noblest  of our men
  The descendants of the best of the best.
They are-As many as God’s Words are -
Enormous as the waves of ocean
To storm into thy enemies’ strongholds
Whilst Thy name stays on our lips
In songs and  in prayers -
Becoming -the Jewel  -of
 Our holiest stories-
(Oh, Magnificent King of the sky,  
in thy heavenly  golden garment
I am all yours.)
There are only few, if any,
 May ask about the good tidings, or news --“
(Unaware : platitude shall  corrupt
Their- blessing in disguise,
 Beggars- in all kinds  of weather.)*

Their native lands were mountains
  with the sharpest perches  though,
famous for being  the paradise road
of the adventurers’ arks, and
 Forever chevaliers’ standing   carcasses  
 paved with good intentions - albeit
With all  kinds of complains -
 Lead to  nowhither -soon or later

Though they are always traveling,
Their Mules  stranded, trudging ;
 sunk  to Flanks in the  snow,
Like untrained knights in the field
Remembering in sorrow, with tears,
There were times they were free
And had their own hanging gardens,
  groves, and  heavenly orchards
And owned an absolute sublime patch of paradise     
(Which, Naively,  they called  them
The-Shrine -resorts of Al-Sahaba- )

Oh. Blessed withering - terra firma  
Land of all  fauna and wild flora,
 Zagros’  terraced slope paradise,
Were guarded by- a thousand-
Angel like- immortal juveniles
Regardless of their gender,
forever  alerted like  holy dogs, 
To keep away the unfriendly,
 And hostile intruders

-Their  story-  then on, was,
A prosaic travel from the valleys
Up to the breast of the mounts
Resided - and crowded in black  tents 
The Lest protective-environment-
 Of the genital parts, and skins.

Perpetual fugitives- terrified  of,
 The  inner cities  dysfunction,  
  kept  as such, for a thousand years   
Delightfully  following their livestock;  
Herds of sheep, cows and goats   
Listening to the jingling bills,
nightingales  tweets,
And the purling of the flowing  water
Into his lyric whisper of un-orchestrated passion  -
Unaware: They won’t survive all those 
Frosts on the back of mules and horses
Galloped away in their best time.
In their  destructed meadows.
Remembered, how they chose
 the worse days for their journey.
Screaming and singing,
 Until their exiled  sage throw his first arrow
 loaded  With a new year dispatch -
warning  them of the lands quake  
“ Oh travelers to nowhither .”
What doeth thy Kashkool* - took in ?”
And then on his golden arrow-
He composed-his first Gatha -to launch
 “These days, you must be shrewd,
(For - Every gesture might hide a disaster.)  
 Or you shall lose your paradise soon, 
And shall , scavenge  the kills of kings 
 where  rocks, or cliffs  are sheer
Or where rivals are hostile and wild
-Fighting over the  poisonous vegetation and insects
And carrying perpetually -in your face-
 a thousand holy messages to prevail:
Lest Storms of  Revolts no more erupt .
(Impairing  your-egos and breed as such.)
They divide  your tribes -
 into a thousand wings-  
And wreck the lines of thy memory. 
Then they drive  you south ,
And  command you in rage
  ‘Come down to the temperate valley-‘
‘And spray you with all kinds of poison.”
Thus, I saw by my own eyes
how, they crashed your revolts.
 Your topography, springs ,trees
Your culture and souls.
 Buried you in deserts
Dissolved you in  Aqua Regia
And sandwiched you in  humble concrete cottages,
O, brethren,“Thy horses, no more,  gallop away in the meadows.”
Then they  came down to the cities,
Arriving in- the outer- skirts-
Where were found-  shut off-  in ghettos  
empty handed-  in the hottest noon,
Feeling unaccomplished to feed
 a dozen of little offspring
Waiting for food on the unfriendly floor
All this was recently,
 And  a long time ago
And  in future (- Will Be…)
Have hard and bitter agony ;
 Like the resurrection of the magic- again-
They repeat themselves, but,
 NOW, there is no time left ,
For the chess- game- And-
They say. “You  ain’t no -any gamer , bruv )
And I say:
-  Dare to bewail aloud-
“Oh my other egos -
My siblings ,
My friends,
Look, from your niche , unto the sky, 
the space, the old things.
Thy journey has not come to the end- yet-
It is the bluest season of history
You must have had a dream,
Divulge it NOT for simplicity,
(What matters, what does matter? .)
 O’ travellers
By all considerable odds- Is to be
 (More Hamletian than ever  .)* When
Aliens-and marauding tribes of the steppes ,
Are marching  in rhyme with God’s lyrics,   
Digging into your ego- and compiling  the scores, 
You ought to be beholden to Him , bruv .
For,they are screaming.
“Here we're taking what belongs to Him."  
And you are silent like the rock of hell.”

  * Kashkool - Persian Wiki- Brooklyn Museum- 
It was a bag-used by- mystics-  

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