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The Garden of God by Monia
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To Shaheed AHMAD SHAH MASSOUD,
Servant of the people of Afghanistan,
Servant of the Afghani Nation,
Lover of poetry,
A different tribute
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The book is currently only available in French; however, an English translation is in progress. In Europe, the cost of the book is seven (7) euros plus one (1) euro for postage. For information on the English translation or for price and postage costs for countries outside Europe, please contact the author at djaniat@yahoo.fr
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Illustrations by Rudy VAN GIFFEN
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L'HOMME-OISEAU
Tu naquis en pays farouche où les monts se confondent avec le ciel,
Tout près de l'Hindou Kouch, en verte vallée, toute perlée de soleil.
Contrée étrange, royaume de djinns vampires et de livres mystérieux,
Pièges impitoyables pour qui s'y aventure avec esprit curieux.
Tu fus homme avant tout, certainement pas Dieu
Mais élu de Lui cependant, tu en avais les yeux.
Le Prophète t'insuffla sa foi et sa patience aussi,
Une muse des cieux te perça le cœur d'une flèche de poésie.
Tu ne choisis pas ton destin, c'est lui qui te choisit
Il ne pouvait en être autrement, Dieu en avait décidé ainsi !
Toujours en quête d'absolu, tu suivis ton pénible chemin
Sans une plainte, humblement, avec la résignation d'un saint !
La nuit, les étoiles apitoyées, te faisaient rempart de leur lumière,
S'enroulant autour de tes souliers, les caressant de leurs folles crinières,
Rousses et échevelées comme gazelle que le chasseur met aux abois,
Fidèles, elles poursuivaient leur course, s'accrochant à tes pas.
Entouré de leur doux éclat, obstinément, tu persévérais
Franchissant les cols ardus des montagnes, parcourant les vallées.
Indifférent à ton corps brisé qui quémandait repos,
Insensible à la morsure de la bise qui te glaçait le dos.
Et nuées s'ouvraient qui déversaient sur terre des torrents de feu
Te contraignant à fuir toujours plus loin, à t'abriter en quelque autre lieu.
Moine-soldat, toujours flanqué de rudes compagnons,
Mais solitaire en ton combat, promenant ton idéal au bout de ton bâton.
L'été, les arbres du Panjshir revêtaient leurs habits de verdure
Assis à leur ombrage, rêveur, tu contemplais leur magnifique parure.
Homme-poète, homme de paix, homme-enfant, homme-oiseau,
Tu t'extasiais du chant d'un mainate, de la couleur ambrée d'un abricot.
Les rugissements du fleuve, s'engouffrant dans les gorges, te fascinaient
L'onde te semblait porteuse de paroles perdues et de secrets étouffés.
Parfois, pour tenter de les deviner, tu te risquais à y plonger la main,
Tu en retirais une myriade de gouttelettes, autant de messages divins.
Rieuses et légères, les perles d'eau miroitaient de merveilleux reflets,
Virevoltaient à ton poignet, se muaient en un précieux chapelet.
Subjugué par l'écume qui les dentelait, tu t'abîmais en une ardente prière,
Véritable océan d'amour dont les vagues s'en venaient mourir tout au creux de tes lèvres.
De ton cœur pur jusqu'à l'abnégation jaillissait le flot de ta bonté,
Tu ne demandais rien pour toi si ce n'est la simple force de continuer.
Les mots sacrés s'enracinaient en ton âme, l'illuminaient d'une claire piété
Transcendant ton beau visage tourmenté d'une splendide aura de rosée.
Le soir, dans une bergerie, à la lueur d'une lanterne pâlissante,
Tu évoquais sans crainte la mort, tapie en sa tanière malfaisante.
Tu la savais inéluctable et avec douce ironie, t'en accommodais,
Au-dehors, soumises à la flamme de tes convictions, les montagnes fondaient.
Toujours enclin à la plaisanterie, curieux de tout, avide de confidences,
Tu questionnais sans cesse tes amis, te riant de leurs pudiques silences.
Et la pénombre s'éclairait alors de minuscules lucioles dorées
Qui sautillaient au fond de ton regard enfantin, tout pétillant de gaieté.
Aujourd'hui tu n'es plus et, orpheline de toi, la terre se désole.
Anxieuse, elle guette un signe… Il suffirait d'un rien pour qu'elle se console !
Au léger souffle de la lune, elle se surprend à s'essuyer les yeux,
Et ton image radieuse lui apparaît soudain
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Profits from the book sales will go to NOOR to further their educational program in Afghanistan.
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"THE YOUNG FLEDGLING"
In an untamed land you were born, where mountains blend with the sky,
Hugging the Hindu Kush, in a green valley* beaded with the sun.
Land of strangeness, kingdom of vampire djinns and books filled with mystery,
Pitiless snares for those who dare to venture there in mere curiosity.
You were a man first of all, never a divinity,
But elect by God, your eyes shining through Him!
The Prophet breathed into your ears his faith and constancy
A muse from Heavens pierced your heart with her dart of poetry.
You did not choose your destiny; it chose you.
It could not have been otherwise for it was God's will!
Relentless in your search for perfection, you followed your painful way…
Never complaining, you gave yourself over, humbly like a saint!
By night, the stars touchingly shielded you with their lights,
Curling about your shoes, caressing them with their wildly flowing manes, Russet and tousled like a hunted gazelle brought at bay. Tangled,
They coursed on, clinging to your steps with intrepid faith.
Wrapped in their sweet sparkle you carried on, tenaciously
Wandering about the dales, negotiating the arduous passes of the mountains.
Heedless of your weary limbs yearning for some rest,
Unconcerned by the nip of the north wind icing your back.
And the clouds burst wide to flood the Earth with fire,
Forcing you onward in search of refuge, fleeing further and further.
Monk and soldier, ever escorted by your raw companions,
Yet lonely in your fight, you trusted your staff as a magic wand.
When in summer, the trees of the Panjshir garbed in green,
Seated in their shade, you gazed at their beautiful adornments, marveling…
Man of poetry, man of peace, childlike heart, young fledgling,
What ecstasies you found in the mina's song, the amber-colored peach.
Fascinated by the river's roar, rushing down the gorges, you dreamed on
Echoes you heard in the watery realm, lost words and muted secrets in its womb.
Sometimes, trying hard to guess, you ventured a curious hand,
Drawing out divine messages from a myriad of droplets.
Light and merry, the pearling water shimmered with marvelous gleams,
Twirling round your wrist, changing into precious beads.
Enchanted by the rippled foam, you sank into an ardent prayer,
True Ocean of love whose waves swept dying over the hollow of your lips.
From your heart washed pure in self-denial sprang the flow of bounty,
For yourself you asked nothing except the strength to bear your sufferings.
The sacred words took root in your soul, enlightened it with translucent piety,
Transfiguring your sweet and tormented face with a halo of brilliant dew.
At dusk, sheltered in a sheep-fold, by the faint light of a waning lantern,
You fearlessly summoned death, hidden in her sinister lair.
You knew her to be ineluctable and with sweet irony, accepted the fact,
Outside, subdued to the flames of your convictions, the mountains melted.
Always ready for joy, eager to know, insatiable for confidences,
You constantly questioned your friends, laughing at their uneasy silences.
And the darkness lit up with tiny and golden fireflies,
Dancing at the bottom of your childlike gaze, all-sparkling with merriment.
Today you are no more and, missing you, the orphaned Earth is mourning,
Anxiously awaiting some miracle… One little sign would be sufficient and comforting!
At the light breath of the moon, she sighs in relief and dries her eyes,
And your radiant image suddenly appears before her in the depths of the skies.
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Noor was created in July 2001 by five young people, lovers of Aghanistan,
who were much concerned by the terrible times this country endured. It quickly appeared that one of the areas of most concern was the education of Afghan children.
The aim of the Noor is to build several schools for boys and girls, first in the Panjshir valley but also in the whole of Afghanistan.
Noor's action update: June 15,2004:
- the school of Mazina is now under the protection of the Government (400 pupils)
- a second school in the region of Nagahar (School of Bar-Coat, 150 girls)
- Finance for of a third school in the region of Nangahar: School of Su-Tan, 150 little girls)
- The bus that takes the pupils between the villages of Dshtak and Rokha in the Panjshir Valley (100 little boys).
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