— POEM 𝒃𝒚 Shukur Shanol

Face to face

The homeland, the former village,

Crescent moon to amber,

The star is fire, like a pomegranate,

The wind is crazy,

Just like horses without a wash…

The homeland, the former village,

Your greenery,

Your glow bugs,

Face to be opened still a budding flower,

At the top of the woods,

No winter, No vulgar,

Of the sparkling mountains,

On your rock, on your rock,

The ferry is open, the waters is open,

That comes, that goes,

That got where…

Where your home is,

Your corridor candlesticks, candles.

Our eyes tired of the settlement,

The city flashes ads…

In the chilly evening,

At the age of seventeen,

Love, in love,

Clover to a weed eater,

The running haystack with a yellow face.

Clover to a weed eater,

Leaning on back,

Tell me who the turner is,

Who opened your love…

That land, that hearth, a bird door,

Chimney feather flutters every day,

From sunset until morning don’t unfold its wings;

At it’s the nights,

The inconspicuous road walker with phaeton.

The homeland, the former village,

Of your door, grass and leaves,

Of the threshold of the home,

And your rocking cradle…

His face,

He was sad…

….

(Self-translation from Azerbaijani)

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