Seeds Poem by Sherko Bekas

We were millions
we were old trees
newly growing plants
and seeds.
From the helmet of Ankara
they came at dawn
they uprooted us
they took us away
far away.
On the way the heads of
many old trees drooped
many new plants died in the cold
many seeds were trampled under foot
lost and forgotten
We grew thin like the summer river
we diminished like flocks of birds
towards the time of autumn
we diminished to mere thousands
We had seeds
carried back by the wind
they reached the thirsty mountains again
they hid inside rock clefts
the first rain
the second rain
the third rain
they grew again
Now again we are a forest
we are millions
we are seeds
plants
and old trees
the old helmet died!
And now you the new helmet
why have you put the head of the spear
under your chin?
Can you finish us off?
But I know
and you know
as lond as there is a seed
for the rain and the wind
this forest will never end?

The meadow that remained arid
despite last year's kisses of rain
I will make green this year,
said the cloud.
With that beautiful flower
that I did not thread in my hair last year
I will adorn myself this year,
said the garden.
That beautiful tall tree
with whom I did not dance last year
I will ask to dance this year,
said the breeze.
The New Year's crown
that I wore last year
will look much smaller than this year's crown,
said the mountain top.
The brooks
with whom I dallied last year
I will ask for their hands this year,
said the lake.
The horizon
in which I did not fly last year
will be this year's destination of my journey,
said the bird.
The dark-eyed letters
that I did not know last year
I will slip over my hand as a bracelet this year,
said the little girl.
The whirlwind
by which I was thrown back last year
I will break through this year,
said the horse.
The candles on my twelve fingers
radiate more hope this year
than last year's did,
said the candlestick on the table.
The grain of wheat
that I did not manage to store in my ant-hill
I will take there this year,
said the ant.
The poem that is shy like a deer
and that last year I could not tame
or acquaint with my eyes
I will tame this year
and take into the bright attic of my poetry-book
and let it sleep in my arms,
said finally I.