Somebody asked:
Have you written poems for your homeland? 
The earth shook, my fingers were still. 
Will grief-pressed weighted shoulders 
move from mountain to mountain?

Could Homeland be strong tea 
That quenches thirst and gives pleasure? 
Could Homeland be the narrow path 
Whose trees give shade yet 
When barred is desert wilderness?

Or is it the sunlight of a tense noon 
That reddens your two cheeks? 
Perhaps it is the reflection of a full moon Branded on a lonely river.

Or the plaintive call of the Athaan 
That has settled in your souls. 
Or the whooshing winds of summer That took us straight to a smile.

Homeland-

A tembur's sound, a dutar's voice.
A red-faced pomegranate seller,
A girl looking down in a green scarf,
A pair of laughing brown eyes,
One verse of Uyghur's words, 
One endless love, 

Perhaps tears frozen in the form of droplets, That no one could wipe away.

Longing [Fatimah Seyyah]

Ömür menzili [Abdurehim.T Ötkür]

In ancient blood books 
the valleys dragged by warhorses’ tails
and their pitiful cries
are called the wind

Land
in the end 
is made not of earth
but by piecing together
torn
scattered incomplete maps.


Windstorm [Ghojimuhemmed Muhemmed]

WTFKISTAN

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