Wound-i-stan

This translation of Suhrab Sirat’s ghazal was long-listed by The Poetry Society in collaboration with Modern Poetry in Translation.

My soul, my gaze, my shadow, my dream, my night – all wounded
My lips, transfixed to the mirror, wounded.

I am all autumn, always, a year brimming with venom
Libra, Scorpio, Sagittarius – arrowstruck and wounded.

In its nest on the mad bull’s horns, my Earth rattles
Heart, this heart, my heart, this mudbound donkey, wounded.

Where is my country? Its land a shrunken grave
My sky! Where is my sky? Since ancient times my star is wounded.

Baba gave bread, gave me water… homework fades without home
Page by page, blood into dust, my school is wounded.

Let the sleeping conscience lie;
My spirit is dead and my nerve is wounded.

Everything I have, from beginning to end:
My name, my words, my memories, my religion – all wounded.

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