Life
AN ACCOUNT OF MY STATE
Translated from Uzbek · Original text
I remember — once I used to write poems,It was searching for words and setting them side by side.I wandered, moaning, in the darkness of fancy;Now, grown and stricken with pain, I am melting.I used to say within: may my beautiful coupletsPass from tongue to tongue and be loved.Though I had nothing worthwhile to say,I held myself like a sage, puffed up.As the stone of time slowly crushed my chest,Blood spurted from my throat, making me retch.And though my longing for poetry died away,My soul came out stringing sorrows into words.Once there were thoughts as pure as milk,Once there was a name as bright as dawn,Once there were melodies as pleasant as a breeze...The evening embraced them all, one by one.Revenge crept in among the dreams,Many stains splashed upon the face of the name.My inner self burned the melodies and swallowed them,Within me thousands of lamps went out.The one I knew as a friend suddenly took offense,Even waved the banner of enmity.Was it envy, hidden like a seed — ah,It grew like a thornbush, its leaves were thorns.The more the stone of time crushes my being,The more my lungs keep filling with blood.If I do not empty them, I am sure to die —For the ailing soul still wants to live.That is why I took the pen in hand,That is why I opened this new notebook.Once again I set out for the land of words,Pulling the lancets from my tongue one by one.In the soil of obscurity this sorrowful heartWishes to voice its sorrow and its grief.Perhaps its life would grow a little lighterIf it poured its eternal grief out on the road.There is no listener to tell my pain to,No friend, no heart's desire to share my sorrow.In every breast there is at least one arrow,Shot without warning by one's closest friend.That is why paper is my only confidant,My swiftest servant — the selfless pen.The word carries my burden without reproach,Be it joy or bitter pain.Perhaps if I searched earnestly, without rest,Some fellow sufferer would turn up among mankind.But I have this fear —That I might make him weary of his own life.You too, O my reader, forgive me:Our companion is sorrow, forevermore.If you wish to read my words,Welcome to pain — wa alaykum salam!March 5, 2024.Akrom MALIK
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