Me gindo

  

K Hassan

Me gindo, me gindo,                                                                                                                                         so si amaro drom,                                                                                                                                           ratfała jasfa,                                                                                                                                                  katar o them so nashti rove.

                I.

Our journey has no names,                                                                                                                             We plunge past gods’ faint, withered reach,                                                                                                 Our souls, knives, rend time’s decaying veil;                                                                                              We cleave through grief, through lovers’ ardent cries,                                                                            Through kin-born wails, through song and wine and fire,                                                                             Our trail—a fire that courts the stars at night

No stream but blood, this path of untamed joy,
It throbs in camps that flare beneath the moon,
A surge of ash and song, of shared red wine,
Of fervent hearts, of bonds the law denies,
Tales leap unbound, no shrine can chain their spark.

The phuro calls, his voice a drum of old,
It hums of India, of winding roads,
Of hands that weave what kings would guard in vain,
Of fire spun from fingers, song from soul,
Of love that bends the rules of saints and men.

He spins the fox that tempts the wolf to joy,
A chart that seizes earth with kindled flame,
We carve our tales through veins of surging time,
From depths our verse in five-beat thunder soars,
Not for their lords, but night’s untamed embrace.

Papusza’s voice—our people’s heart laid bare,
Her hawks of song trapped in outsider’s ink;
She sang of glades where lovers burn as one,
Where priests and lords may curse and chase in vain,
Yet fate obeys the pulse of nature’s law.

In eastern frost, the Red Star crushed our glow,
It broke our wheels, built cells to cage our dance,
It tore the spark from young throats’ blazing cries;
Yet songs sank low, our tongue a hidden kiss,
Our fire a blade to cleave the shadowed gloom.

No creed—Islam’s shroud, Christ’s bleeding cross,
Nor Hindu loops, nor coin’s cold, glinting chains—
Could quench our thirst; their heavens pale and weak,
Our pulse outlasts their gods and emperors’ holds,
Five iambs thrum where mortal law dissolves.

              II

To live is fire forged in five-beat tides,
Our blaze eclipses gods’ diminished spark;
From clashing hands we shape the chaos bold,
The fiddle cries from wood by starlight kissed,
Sings kin-born peaks in five-beat floods of soul.

The woman’s thread spins dreams through dusk’s dark cloth,
Of rose-lit skin, of wings, of turning wheels;
The man’s forge bends raw iron into grace,
From void to form, our craft defies their gods,
Five iambs surge where heaven’s rules grow faint.

Our gifts still flare though scribes blot out our name;
In Paris’ mist, Django’s torn hands call storms,
His strings—five beats of bliss, of aching grief—
Outrun the fates, their cry holds all our loss,
He bids the stars to dance with our kin’s flame.

In Spain’s fierce heat our blood met Moorish wails,
Flamenco’s howl—no act but soul-born fire;
Palms clap like hearts, heels strike the earth’s deep core,
Strings blaze in five-beat flames of boundless joy,
Our passion, our defiance, gods can’t tame.

Our women’s eyes pierce through the veil of chance;
With cards, with hands, they spark the lost with hope,
They weave hot tales for those in pious chains,
Their craft—a spark, a coin from mind’s deep fire,
Five iambs sing the soul’s forbidden crave.

We share the bread, the wine, the fire’s warm glow,
Yet never dim the heart that loves us true;
We bear the wrath of lawless kings and priests,
Yet Nature judges all, and none can flee,
Five iambs thrum where night obeys the wind.

             III

I seek myself, a child of dusk and blood,
Lost in the glade where night’s fierce joy enfolds;
A wolf’s low growl beats death’s own five-fold tune,
My kinsman shouts, his will a burning blade,
He guards my soul with heart, not steel, in war.

He bears me home where flames dance like old loves,
For days their pulse in five-beat tides resounds;
The violin wails—an arrow through the dark,
Gold threads entwine with ancient, searing charms,
A youth’s bold verse defies the tyrants’ chains.

Two lovers steal a kiss; their spark lights stars,
Village mobs curse, yet fate obeys the road,
They hunt the heart, but boundless love survives,
We sing of wolves, of saves, of truths too vast,
Five iambs clash where fear and lies prevail.

We share the feast with orphaned kin and child,
Yet claim the night, the fire’s unyielding glow;
Our path is free, yet Nature weighs the scales,
For justice flows where mortal laws fall short,
Five iambs hum where gods can never reach.

               IV

I dream beneath the moon of our kin’s red,
Of lands where truth wears not the thief’s false mask,
Where Django’s song threads on, unbroken flame,
Papusza’s voice no exile’s chain, but fire,
Our craft no trifle, but the high-born art.

This realm beyond gods is ours alone,
No map but memory’s five-beat blazing heart;
The fiddle’s sob, the heel’s fierce striking call,
The seer whispers tales that bend the stone,
Five iambs hum where no divine can tread.

We keep a hoard of stars—our lore, our wealth;
Our wheels roll free, our art the rebel’s sign,
We sing, we weave, we bear all life’s sharp edge;
We love, we burn, we pay the fire’s cost,
Five iambs flare to paint the world’s dull frame,
No god can steal the fire we call our own.

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