My blood drips from the singed shoots of Olive
In the suburbs of Ayn-al-Arab
In my eyes’ backyard
There flows a deluge of tears
On my fingertips
I inscribe elegies of Seamus Heaney
I’m not a professional mourner.

There’s no window in my house
The red roses of Samarqand
And the tulips growing on the mountains od Almata
Beckon me to them
I’m waiting for the bullet
Of my share

Confronting the rage of ocean
Hemingway’s voice resounds in my head
I have to go crush this ocean’s resistance
O you Bunyan tree growing
In the south of Manser lake
It’s your love
That delays my departure.

Translated by: Sara Ali Khan