Kurdish poets with military experience have fallen silent and I am bereft;

Poetry has always been the main pillar of Kurdish literature

The fight for their land and the fight for their identity are the same.

The Kurds are not divorced from the west - Eliot's influence on al-Sayyab  for example -

And the hot wave from Arabia did not destroy the Kurds, many are Christian, Ezedi and secular

And Kurds have always loved and respected women

It is obvious.  the spirit of the Kurds and the philosophy of Goran's poem

Overlaps with the spirit of Shelley in  To Night: 

Now, now,  I miss all the world that was lived by these Kurdish poets

 I miss all the life they knew and studied. Now I am a bent vegetable.

At a loss  When the Kurdish poet Ahmad-î Khânî (1651-1707)

Wrote the epic Mam û zîn in
1694, he not only told a most beautiful love story, but also expressed a very
important period in Kurdish history.
Khânî wished for the Kurds to have their own land, free from Ottoman rule.

A special place: 

For women  term is a period of pregnancy

For men a term is a period of incarceration

For the errant school child a term is a period of schooling.

Most men walk away from prison. Children too, from school. 

Many women did not survive their term but died in a bed of blood and pain.

Women still die in their heroic attempts to give birth,

Fewer do now, in the rich north, more still die where women are more vulnerable.

In Kurdistan where our sisters of the YPJ are now being blown asunder

And all their unborn children too

On the say-so of a rich fat man in America

By Turkish bullets, NATO jets.

These abominations are unforgiveable.

 

Yet if you should forget me for a while

         And afterwards remember, do not grieve:

         For if the darkness and corruption leave

         A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,

Better by far you should forget and smile

         Than that you should remember and be sad.

Remember,  Christina Rossetti, 1830-1894

 

I take some comfort from an old-daddy-long-legs

Here as I write and look at photos of my comrades. 

Dead.