Love
Writing poetry is an ordeal for me, my friend,
Translated from Uzbek · Original text
Writing poetry is an ordeal for me, my friend,I can never speak a word in play and laughter.For a poem my heart has to burn,Or, burning, it has to love someone.If at times I spent my time on a poem,I grieved, wondering: is my time not wasted?And my mind and thought, the light of my eyes,My attention and care, my heart's awareness;And whoever reads this poem by chance —What if just as much of theirs is wasted too?! —So thinking, I shied away from writing poems,I counted the poem my most hidden secret.But today, in such a cramped hour,Even amid turmoil and limbo —Pen in hand. Again I am searching for words,For, ah, an ember is burning me within.A tremor in my veins. Tears upon my face,Spring and autumn laugh alike in my footsteps.Anguish and joy, separation and union,Parting sweet as honey, and a distracted mind —Once again madness has become my quest,For I have fallen in love with you, my beloved.15.10.24.Akrom MALIK
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