Love
Perhaps on a cold, yellow autumn day I put forth buds
Translated from Uzbek · Original text
Perhaps on a cold, yellow autumn day I put forth budsand spread my palm like a beggar asking for a golden coin.Like a man going off to war who takes death upon his neck,I wrote you a letter, resigned to no answer coming from you.What wonder if your not writing is better for me than your writing —it will remind me of my own true worth.Perhaps it is to learn that the earth still carries methat I write you a letter, to cast myself to the ground.And a stranger wisdom still is this: what if, having lost my wayand wandered into the house that is called the living,I should remember that I wrote you a letter and died!For who in this bright world has any business with a corpse!Akrom MALIK
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