Life
THE WOUNDED BIRD
Translated from Uzbek · Original text
A bird does not know whereTo throw itself from the pain.It has always flown — a birdThat never learned to walk the ground.Its wings are too wounded to fly,Its nest for landing is wrecked as well.A grief buried in feathers,It is a heart torn from a breast.It sang so to the stones,It opened its heart, all bloodied.It saw that those who listened stillStood there as pitch-black stones.These stones moved from their placesAnd struck the bird without mercy.When it fell, another stone cameAnd crushed this bird, mangling it.The battered bird now lies there,No sound of life is in its body.That fervent soul that used to singHas neither voice nor breath.This is such a simple and sadTale, brother, that you have heard.Perhaps in this simple taleYou understood the bird's torment.Perhaps you recognized this bird,Perhaps you do not recognize it.Or perhaps, like a pitch-black stone,You go about crushing birds.
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