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.