Life
I kiss the hand that stabbed me with the blade, my friend,
Translated from Uzbek · Original text
I kiss the hand that stabbed me with the blade, my friend,Give me poison again, I will drink it without a doubt.So be it, I will die by this hand of yours, my friend,In a single moment I will give up everything.If someone should happen to justify himself,Do not blame him — his dream, it seems, is to be cleared.Let the breeze go on caressing your face,Its aim, too, it seems, is to be pure.So be it, as you said, my face is black,Now do not trouble yourself so much by loathing me.May you never find my sinful trace in either world,You left me alone with God — thank you!One day I will make the birds my guests,Spreading a feast of my corpse once I am dead.But do not come near, do not ever come,Digging a grave to bury its bones.I am left alone before my Lord,And I too will do you a complete kindness:Keep far away from me, never see my face,Let that be the kindness I do for you!Akrom MALIK
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