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I stared at thenightof the city
209
desire to meet her was
fulfilled, even if in that
other life. I was drawn to
her with every fibre of my
being and such attraction
surmounts both time and
place. When, on a moonlit
night, that speaker of
ghazals, that young man
came it was from my dark
side. Had I the option,
I would have chosen to
have
his
appearance
and figure myself. It
resembled a favourite
form of mine, chosen
when I was on stage at
night; his debauchery was
part of my own internal,
secret debauchery. When
one night he appeared
along with your noble
mother, I was perplexed.
I found myself slammed
against a wall beyond the
power of my reason and
consciousness. My faith
was in danger. I did not
know what to do. The
magic of that encounter
made me dizzy and all this
debauchery was beyond
my body’s strength. I
was in heaven but I was
also in hell. As we say in
Kurdish, I was drowning in
fire and in water. You are
made from those nights.
True, you were born from
the real womb of a real
mother and you were
born a perfect creature
made by God and you
were born in a week when
imperfect and disabled
children were born, but
still, nobody knew you
were not a real child. You
are imagination’s son,
the child of my imaginary
nights with Baharbanu.
If you are not my son,
what explains the ghazal
already inscribed on your
chest when you came out
of your mother’s womb?
Oh, child of the day, night
melodies conceived you,