Abdulkadir Musa

Abdulkadir Musa


Abdulkadir Musa, born 1969 in Amude/ Kurdistan, studied French Language and Literature in Aleppo. In 1995 he moved to Magdeburg, where he worked as

a translator and cultural advisor in the socio-psychiatric services. Today, a graduate of the ASH Berlin in Social Pedagogy, he lives and works in Berlin as a social worker. His lyrics, Your Wings Have Taught Me to Fly (Semakurd,

Dubai, 2007), were published in the Kurdish language. His poems have been published in German, Kurdish, French, English and Arabic in different magazines and anthologies. Main fields of work: poems, prose, translation,

free rendering, editorial.


Abdulkadir Musa
Translated by Margaret Saine









ten moons hang from my hands

tired and exhausted

they slide from the sky of my palms.

A hand melted by the fire of the heat

thinks about the love of fingers

over a broken poem

that gives itself to a breast

clearing space while sleeping under my arms.




ten moons hang from my hands,

as if willed by them

they embrace the horizon,

under my fingernails

they create a rainbow,

an intricately woven cloth

that veils the eyes of my

dumb, strange arms.


– 3 –


ten moons hang from my hands

eagerly reciting love lines,

life lines still in your palm,

read by the moons

your wrist is clasped firmly

around itself and around you,

so that the ten moons in your hand

will rove into

a universe of organs.


– 4 –


ten moons hang from my hands

they bend over the windowpane

in order to eavesdrop

on your night and the history

of the sleeping hand,

and the dreams of fingers

that line up on your shoulder.


– 5 –


ten moons hang from my hands

letting the first stars of your pupils

flow over the doorknob

so that your hands stumble

over the shiny doorbell,

your hands stumble over the darkness.


– 6 –

ten moons hang from my hands

through the accidental crash

with another hand,

they are moons

broken apart,

falling down at the door,

scattered to the four winds,

your necklace.





Let your eyes melt,


let me dream on the pillow,

which in your time

never let me experience a beautiful dream.

String up my dreams in a row as your necklace,

as brilliant corals shine around my mother’s neck.


In the early morning

my raw lips

on your forehead, sun.


I cannot dance in two weddings at once….

….she said.


Can you cry?

With two numb fingers

I dry your tears.


I cannot promise

that I can bury

with two wings and a

firm embrace on my breast

and in my heart

your anger.


Let your head rest against my head,

leave it there and cry

until naked night herself is wet with tears

of shame.


Sobbing I say for your ears

that I cannon play two drums at once,

I cry!


I beg you, do not leave your name in my mouth,

take from me your scent, your color,

so that the butterflies will no longer fly to me

and the jasmine will not be disappointed

and the snow will not melt.


I talk about you,

until I can collect my miserable insides

and a rest of me will not stay as an errant soul

in a strange corner,

in this strange place.


I turn against the east

so as to remember

the desires

that drive me.


Thin blood flows in a delicate body.


I open my mouth

to breathe humidity

and I kiss the sky

whom my mother,

when she loses me,

squeezes in her hand,

and also my father

who also perhaps loses me.



As a sparrow fallen into the snow

searching for his tainted whiteness


I hang,

like a rope with two stones tied to it,

between the power lines of my childhood,

with my old nostalgia, in order to fall.



I write it out of myself

in order to tire the solitary mind

and also my loneliness.


with trembling fingers

I tend you my hand

in order to press your hand tight


I place my head

against your chest,

an icy chest,

and I cry…!?





For the one who wrapped herself in snow



If you had only


for two days,

perhaps I could have gone with you to the church near our apartment,


with your dress of snow,


with my suit from the soot of burnt Amude*.


Two days

your pallor and your bridal dress

hidden on my left,

so as not to allow the black cold.


Two days

in which we would perhaps never have gotten enough

of each other,

but our goodbyes did not get stuck on the doorknob.


Nights could not become a long prayer.

My light sleep waited for the goodbye of your hands

like Henna in my fist.


Two days

and I would perhaps have leaned against your shoulder,

at the airport, with my bouquet of flowers

and a red kiss on your forehead.

Perhaps in the night on the streets of Bonn

with my exuberance and stubbornness,

with my laughter,

with my tears,

I might have distracted you,

so you would not fall into a long sleep,

you with your pallor, tender and transparent as you are,

you, of whom I do not know when you were born, but what I know is

that you came with the snow,

that you left with the snow.


I wanted to be in Şermola**

in order to strew jasmine and snow on your body

with my dark, almost dead hands.

So as to show you the last whiteness,

not asking for anything,

I wait for your hands in the morning.

Have your fingers changed?

In the evening I wait for your eyes and your gaze has changed.


In a time of waiting and the hope for a return

I look out the same window, from which you have counted the pedestrians, so as to find me.

In this thirst I can conceive of your return.



If only you were still near,

I miss you, and it smells of death,

your fingers push a dark hand into the grave of my heart.



If you were still near,

in this night.

When I close my eyes,

I sense in a daydream

that something moves.



If you were near,

my heart would hear your hearbeat.



If you were near

in the morning,

I could hear at the same window

the ravens on the hill.



If you were near

you would be exactly here.

You do not let go of me.



*Amude: Town in Rojava, West Kurdistan

**Şermola: well-known emetery in Amude









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