I never had wine to drink, and now
my empty cup’s all depths of spring
wine crowned with ant-fluff foam,
but how will I ever taste it again?
Delicacies crowd altars before me,
and at my side, those I love grieve.
I try to look–it’s eyes of darkness.
I try to speak–a mouth of silence.
I once slept beneath high ceilings,
but a waste village of weeds is next:
leaving my gate behind, I’ll set out
and never again find my way back.
translated by David Hinton
This poem is for Natıg Damırov whose brother Orhan died in a car crash 10 days ago in Azerbaijan.