Keqi # 5

dari rari ra   dari rari ra    rari rari rari ra     dari ra

drips pomegranate juice of her voice and does me yet again

there in her eyes a she drums on a tambourine     my shoulders here   dari ra

my thumb, keqi, rari rari ra

music is a woman waking all the dead in I     
and again  pomegranate juices in my words

music is a woman here in my room here again turning even this chair again around

so many fingers   how pressing   and naughty so
one finger over the apple  
over the red hot waters    
over all the vibrant buttons   over the glooms of this man who can’t dance with soaked pants

but all I’ve got is a single body with a pair of bruised hands, keqi    

if I run to her wounded self, her joyful self in Kabul is envious    
if I run to her joyful self, her wounded self in Yerevan cries at the threshold, come by come back  so I go to her peacock and isn’t she taking her life in the mirror
away from narcissus from heroin I walk in the way of the mirror the way of her god    and all she wishes is melting in my voice so she can turn into the Tajmahal all the way in Samarkand  

and the domes keqi the domes  the domes  in a brook  where mouths look like blooms and panting

never-dying thighs shimmer     
starving lilies open up mouths in my insides murmuring where where where  in my sleep   

at my side in my throat I don’t know what I’m saying ‘cause I touched this apple and now my name is gone    
my words are gone    
and who am I  from now on    
you know damn well I’m in love only with you in the whole heaven and hells   

of your beak drips her saffron voice   her doped voice   her tipsy voice   
bruised holes    bruised wounds     and you’re perched,  yes, you,  on the shoulder of her chanter    

all the chimneys of this town are gently tilting gently shaking their shoulders tapping their feet dari rary ra…

I’ve become the orphan lute   bruised    share with a drowsy pig my room  

and she is the gorgeous guitar    slipping away seductress   belongs to no where   
no where to belong to      the whore!

Now go on tell the mailman my dead mouth is falling off    for the sake of the gods pals   one of you      here    or    there!  

Translated by Saghi Ghahraman