THREE POEMS BY TARANA TURAN RAHIMLI

(Review)

The famous Azerbaijani poet Tarana Turan Rahimli's poem "We were not created for each other" is a fascinating reflection of the complexity of human relationships. Here, the feeling of belonging to two worlds, different worlds, where darkness and light intermingle in an eternal dance, is conveyed with special artistic mastery.
The phrase "we were not created for each other" repeated in the poem skillfully reflects feelings and thoughts about the incompatibility between two human characters. The idea that the lyrical hero in the poem has two different worlds, different hearts and thoughts, sounds stronger with each new verse. Each verse reveals what separates two souls that will never come together at a common point.
This lyrical work is painted with a deft poetic brush that reveals individual hearts and the thoughts that characterize them.
The lack of connection between two people in the poem through metaphors such as "We are human beings of two different worlds, It is dark in one world, it is light in another one", "My wishes are like sailless ship, Your waves can't push me" , the difficulty of finding balance in relationships is brought into consideration.
Analogies such as a ship without a sail and waves that cannot move forward perfectly reflect the feeling of lack of communication and the difficulty of finding a common language. The poem also invites us to think about the inevitability of love sometimes turning into sadness, out of its orbit.
The poem mentions the idea that love can one day turn into separation, and indicates that a relationship in which inconsistencies are observed will be problematic and will not last long. Tarana Turan Rahimli's poetic voice boldly and honestly admits that it is not everyone's skill to endure the heat of love, the flame of love, because every person has a different soul:

I don’t want the heat of love scorch you
I can’t bear the flames of love.
Who heard summer and winter united?
We were not created for each other.

In the poem, the poet conveys the importance of not deceiving oneself and accepting that some relationships are simply not intended by God.
Overall, the poetic logic of the poem suggests acceptance of separation and the need to end a relationship that was wrong from the beginning. The poet emphasizes the importance of not deceiving oneself and not necessarily continuing on a predictable path:

Each of us has different spirit, let’s not be divided
Let’s not shove each other on the train of life.
Let’s not set a road the end of which is seen beforehand
We were not created for each other.

When reading the poem, one feels gratitude to the poet for sharing it with the readers of the world and allowing him to explore his own lyrical universe. Tarana Turan Rahimli's ability to express complex and deep emotions is truly commendable. I hope he will continue to write and share his talent with the world in this way.
The poem "Skill is that" is an artistic piece written by skillfully using all the possibilities of the poet's native Azerbaijani language, which takes us to the world of philosophical thought and wisdom. In the poem, the author invites us to think about the life path full of obstacles and the lessons we should learn along the way.

The road that does not lead to the truth
It is not known whether it is wrong or right.
Unless a person learns a lesson
God's lesson never ends.

Through vivid life boards and powerful metaphors, this poetic example instills in us thoughts about life skills and the importance of self-improvement.

Fate is your rope
It cuts where you least expect it.
To zoom in a bit
He introduces you to grief.

Life is an endless trial.
Everyone will get through somehow.
don't be afraid of the dark
he is born from it in the morning.

The poem also draws attention from the point of view of its fluidity with its rhythmic cadence and fascinating melody, reflecting the richness of the Azerbaijani language. The author uses various means of artistic expression, such as the personification of nature and metaphors that describe the difficulties and trials we face on the path of destiny.
As for the choice of form, the artistic form, the poem corresponds to the rhythmic lyrical structure, the number of syllables and emphasis of the lines resonate with the content, creating a beautiful harmony. The internal rhymes and assonances that provide the musicality of the poem complete the form component.
Tarana Turan Rahimli's metrical quartet-sized poem "God, you raised me late" also immerses the reader in the world of deep emotions and thoughts. The poem, with its elegant poetic language, leads us to think about universal themes such as the passage of time, lost hope, and the struggle to find our place in the world.
The poem begins with a powerful statement: "God, you raised me late" (My God, you raised me late). This phrase sets the melancholic tone and sense of delay in life that develops throughout the poem.

God, you raised me late
It was too late for what I did.
Because I was late for every door
How many hopes have been destroyed.

The author reflects on missed opportunities and closed doors, wishing people would act sooner so that they are not late for life. As the artistic thought in the poem progresses from stanza to stanza, we encounter a series of poetic images moving towards different moments and situations.
From the poet's acceptance of the mistakes and dual nature of this world to his seeing words as a refuge, each stanza invites us to reflect on our existence and the decisions we make:

I realized the mistake too late, it's true
and the upside down face of the world,
I took refuge in the embrace of words,
There I warmed up and gained strength.

The poem reflects a remarkable sequence according to the shape structure of the syllable weight. Each stanza, consisting of four lines, has a rhythm and harmony characteristic of the overall spirit of the poem. And this rhythm and harmony reflects the mysterious beauty of the poet's lyrical world, the uniqueness of thought.
The poem invites the reader to introspect and appreciate the beauty of words.
Azerbaijani poet Tarana Turan Rahimli's sincere poetry and heart-warming poems overcome language barriers and rise to the sky like the butterflies of the poetry sky. Thanks to the publication of his book in Italian and the translation of his poems into many languages, this magnificent poetry is now embodied in new linguistic dimensions, his verses that open like rose petals and travel around the world with their pleasant fragrance arouse love and respect.
Each word, each verse turns into a melodious whisper that touches the soul of those immersed in the poet's lyrics. Tarana Turan Rahimli's poetry is a magical journey through emotional landscapes where words intertwine with harmonious dance. I congratulate the poet for all these important artistic achievements. As I have already mentioned many times in my reviews, I am a fan of his poetic works, I am just a person who learns from this poetry, and he is a friend whose triumphs we are unconditionally proud of. I congratulate him on his great poetic achievements and say: "Here, your talent and poetry continue to influence the world. May your poetic voice always echo in every page we read, in the hearts of those who discover the power of your verses."

Fco Javier Dávila de Leon,
Mexico.

Terane Turan Rehimli

NE MOŽEŠ NASLIKATI MOJU SLIKU

Možeš stvoriti sliku stabla ili kamena
Možeš nacrtati sliku zime koja blijedi u proljeće
Možeš uzeti sve što vidiš na ovom svetu,
Ne možeš naslikati moju sliku…

Može ličiti na moje oči i trepavice,
Čak i ti možeš pronaći boju moje reči.
Možeš nacrtati slepo strpljenje u meni,
Ne možeš stvoriti moju sliku.

Možda možeš nacrtati srce stranca,
Možda možeš srušiti očekivanje u mojoj nutrini.
Možda možeš izliti moj duh u boje,
Ne možeš stvoriti moju sliku.

Moja će ti slika uvek biti pred očima,
Ali ne možeš videti moje vlastito biće.
Tvoj život je možda prošao, ali ta slika nikada neće,
Ne možeš naslikati moju sliku.

Adaptirala sa hrvtaskog prevoda, Milica Lilic
Na hrvatski preveo Zdenko Ćurković

Tarana Turan Rahimli

VIDA É COMO O DENTRO DA PALMA

A vida é como o interior da palma,
Eu olho para isso e é visto de qualquer lugar.
Eu seguro suas mãos secretamente,
E deixe, mas é visto daqui.

Novamente eles pegaram muita dor,
E traga-os para crescer.
Para brotar a nova dor
Com a última lágrima dos meus olhos.

A última esperança está pendurada no poço,
Está na ponta da corda.
Um ser humano procura um canto
Para se esconder do pecado do mundo.

A vida é como o interior da palma,
Seu fim é visto de qualquer lugar.
O sangue dos desejos desbotados
É visto em minhas mãos.

Traduzudo por Fatima Gameiro
English/portuguese 

Azerbaigian.La poesia di Tarana Turan Rahimli…di Domenico Pisana

II mistero dell'amore tra sogno e realtá

(“Ho amato persino la pietra”, Edizioni il Cuscino di stelle 2023, traduzione di Claudia Piccinno)

Una poesia nutrita di profili incisi di comunicabilità, attraversata da forme semantizzate in complessi emozionali, e movimentata da raggruppamenti fonici e segni espressionali, è quella che emerge dalla raccolta Ho amato persino la pietra, Edizioni il Cuscino di stelle 2023, della poetessa dell’Azerbaigian Tarana Turan Rahimli.
L’autrice, nata a Baku, capitale dell’Azerbaigian, tradotta dall’inglese dalla poetessa pugliese Claudia Piccino, è docente del Dipartimento di “Letteratura dell’Azerbaigian e del mondo” nell’Università Pedagogica Statale, nonché docente di letteratura giapponese nella Facoltà di studi orientali dell’Università Statale di Baku, e sue opere di poesie e prosa sono state pubblicate in Turchia, Russia, Ucraina, Kazakistan, Iran e altri paesi.
Il titolo, che è tratto da una poesia del volume, disegna le coordinate di un tema che un topos della poesia e della letteratura, ossia l’amore, che nasce, si dissolve, muore, riaccende sogni, suscita voglia di musica nell’anima della poetessa, inseguendo l’ebrezza delle note sui tasti del cuore e anelando a parole di verità per essere riconosciuto:

“…Sceglieranno solo le parole
E le conserveranno.
Mi riconosceranno
Dal mio amore!” (p. 6).

Tarana Turan Rahimli vive l’amore nei suoi stati suggestivi e intellettuali, e come spinta a una interpretazione affettiva di tutto il repertorio delle immagini, ove si misura la sua diversa osservabilità della vita: “...Lascia che le tue parole rimangano sulla tua lingua…Ci siamo sempre promessi l’un l’altro, / Di recitare parole fino alla fine della nostra vita. “(p.10).
La tensione delle corrispondenze dà forza agli episodi e alla sorgente del suo canto e bagna di dolore la narrazione, che si basa sul debito d’una scelta e il destino di un momento d’amore. E così, la poesia di Tarana Turan Rahimli diventa voce abbuiata e affaticata che grida la sua dolorosa perplessità, ritesse la trama dei quotidiani rapporti e si concretizza, spontanea nelle predilezioni e coerente per esperienze vissute, nell’atto creativo, ritoccando la propria immagine:

Ancora una volta i miei occhi hanno freddo,
Quanto sono freddi i tuoi sguardi.
Come se la tua lingua fiammeggiante fosse congelata ,
Non c’è calore nelle tue parole.

Il ghiaccio è sospeso sulle tue ciglia
I fiocchi di neve sono sparsi sui tuoi capelli.
Come se con le tue labbra baciassi
La guancia dell’inverno.

Tu hai fatto rabbrividire di freddo il mio spirito,
Il tuo cuore è ghiaccio, le tue mani sono neve.
Non mi rattristo perché sei così freddo,
Ho amore persino per una pietra. (p.12).

Il colloquio poetico dell’autrice è, di volta in volta, dimostrativo o nozionale o anagogico, connotato delle parole indispensabili che diventano ora un lungo segno di tenerezza, ora un messaggio forte verso donne sposate che si sentono sole, ora attenzione verso la propria figlia, ora richiamo all’uomo rinchiuso nella sua solitudine, ora colloquio con i poeti che “si ripiegano su se stessi”…./ Nascono e muoiono mille volte…/ Muoiono impiccati dalle loro parole,/ Non lasciano che le parole vengano soffocate /, Sono stanchi e logorati dalla vita, / Muoiono per tornare in vita”(p.23).
Il poetare della Rahimli si dispiega sulla pagina come parola inesauribile, diventa – direbbe Taylor Caldwell “il fedele riflesso dell’intrecciarsi della realtà, l’espressione naturale dell’essere, resa con passione, autenticità e vivezza, permeata della forza e della vivacità individuale”(1) , riuscendo in tal modo a oggettivare il dolore o il riso dei giorni, il fervore della meditazione e l’affanno della ricerca, l’apertura alla Trascendenza e al divino con domande, dubbi, paure, irrequietezze e percezioni dell’anima:

Mio Dio, chi mi sta cacciando?
Chi mi fa rimanere senza fiato?
Chi affretta la vita?
Chi si affretta dentro di me? …

Gli anni sono un treno veloce,
Il mese inizia come inizia…

I momenti si immergono nella memoria.
Tutto scorre e diventa passato…

Vado ad abbracciare il giorno dopo,
non vivo più la mia vita,
Ci volo solo sopra (p.27).

Questa apertura religiosa si esprime anche nella poesia Sarebbe meglio solo per un giorno essere bambino nelle braccia di Dio, ove la poetessa vive momenti di un empito espressivo fatto di immagini e riflessioni: “un’ape”, i “fiori”, “le labbra”, “il respiro”, “la terra e il cielo”, “ il sole”, “le stelle” giungendo, nella quartina finale, ad una esortazione di riferimenti spirituali essenzializzata nello sviluppo di brevi segni e profili esortativi: “Lascia che il grande Dio ti protegga…/ Lascia che tu tenga la mano di Dio /La luce di Dio nel tuo cuore / Sarebbe meglio solo per un giorno / Essere un bambino tra le braccia di Dio” (p.32).
Tarana Turan Rahimli offre al lettore una visione esistenziale ridotta alla nuda essenzialità; è una poetessa pensosa, inquieta, compartecipe della sofferenza umana, delle malattia: “…Cosa nascondeva la gente. / Il destino stava indebolendo / Chi aveva bisogno di sangue. / Il cuore del dottore / Che visitava i pazienti / Era sofferente / I malanni / Come la talassemia e l’emofilia /Avevano sete di sangue…Ho visto il colore del dolore / Sul volto di un bambino / Che non era a conoscenza del suo dolore”, p. 36; è una poetessa che sul piano formale disegna l’essenza dell’uomo con metafore e plessi semantici che assumono significati simbolici e metalinguistici: gli essere umani sono “come un albero da frutto”, “come un fiore”, “come la terra”, “come una pietra”; è, insomma, una poetessa che sa dare voce di canto alle situazioni interiori di sofferenza, di fuga, di ricerca, di sublimazione che agitano l’animo umano.
Ho amato persino la pietra è, per concludere, una silloge poetica che dà alla pietra una polisemica significazione; se il poeta Lucrezio diceva, nel suo De rerum natura, “Gutta cavat lapidem”( La goccia scava la pietra) per sottolineate come una goccia, con il tempo, riesce ad avere la meglio sulla dura roccia, allo stesso modo per la Rakimli l’amore paziente e perseverante ( “…Non c’è fine per la mia pazienza nel sopportarti” dice in un suo verso la poetessa…) può ottenere qualche risultato anche quando trova “esseri umani, / Che sono come una pietra”; anche quando il silenzio “costruisce muri”, e “La via…è piena di lacrime”.
Alla radice della poesia di Tarana Turan Rahimli c’è sicuramente una profonda spiritualità; c’è un leggere il mistero della vita alla luce dei suoi valori eterni, la rivisitazione di sensazioni nascoste maturate all’ombra del “sacro”; c’è la forza delle idee e degli affetti e le parole ne sono le ali.
Si tratta di una poesia che si costruisce, verso per verso, da ciò che sbalordisce la poetessa: felicità o infelicità, gioia o dolore, stanchezza o malinconia, luce o ombra, e che in Lascia che io sia la tua Patria con cui si chiude la raccolta, esprime la nobiltà di un sentimento che affida ad un “oltre” il “sensus” dell’esistere e dell’essere e che si connota come proiezione piena della coscienza dell’ “essere poetico”, aperta all’avventura della parola innestata nella geografia dell’anima:

“…Lasciami tentare di renderti un po’ fortunato.
All’interno di te tieni uno spazio per me,
Lasciami morire in patria quando io l’attraverserò.” (p. 41)

(1) T. Caldwell, Sognare è soffrire. Valori Piperno, pag. 475. 3, Jandi Sapi. Roma, 1949, Traduzione.

Domenico Pisana

Marzo 13, 2024

Terane Turan Rehimli
Autora

DE NOVO NÃO CONSIGO DORMIR

Novamente não consigo dormir
Esta noite a paciência me testa.
A noite mais longa da minha vida
Finalmente vai acabar comigo.

As memórias vão despertar,
Vendo-me que estou acordado.
Oh, quantas pessoas correrão para mim
Pelos cantos do meu passado.

Tantos convidados
Não entre em meus pensamentos.
Um deles vai quebrar as regras
E brigará com todos eles.

Novamente os dias sem sol
Ficará coberto de cinza.
Uma vez eu interrompi a língua
Agora ele tentará me passar pela espada.

O sangue dos desejos mortos
Será espirrado no meu rosto.
No norte desta noite
Este poema será congelado.

Tradução English/Portugues
por Fatima Gamerio 🇧🇷

Переводы стихов доцента, доктора филологических наук, поэта, писателя, журналиста, переводчика, литературного критика, автора 9 книг (на азербайджанском, турецком и итальянском языках) и более 500 статей – Теране Туран Рагимли г. Баку/Азербайджан.

ПОЭТЫ

Им придётся идти целых тысячу лет,
С каждым разом себя познавая,
Умерев сотни раз, ожидая рассвет
Новой жизни, стократ воскресая.

Паутину плетут, словно ловкий паук,
Свежих образов переплетенье.
Боль, как дымом, нередко их кутает вдруг,
Выдав новое стихотворенье.

Они вечно измучены, вечно скорбят,
И судьбы крепко руку сжимают.
С ними камни бывает порой говорят,
Но удачи наречий не знают.

Бог в глазах и над ними, и всюду живёт,
Светом Бога наполнено сердце.
Бог поэтам стареть никогда не даёт:
Это дети, коль внутрь вглядеться.

Обречённые жизненной нитью на смерть,
Они могут в стихах раствориться.
И, устав от рутины, в тоске умереть,
Чтобы снова в стихах возродиться.

ТЫ НЕ МОЖЕШЬ СДЕЛАТЬ ПОРТРЕТ МОЙ

Рисуешь ли ты камень, иль дерево рисуешь,
Рисуешь ли ты зиму, пришедшею весной,
Что хорошо ли, плохо – ты всё живописуешь,
Но ты портрет не можешь создать реальный мой.

Мои глаза увидев, нахмуришься быть может,
Слова мои раскрасишь палитрою цветной.
Терпение безмолвное ты нарисуешь тоже,
Но ты портрет не можешь создать реальный мой.

Ты незнакомки сердце изобразишь, возможно,
Быть может, ты разделишь меня с моей тоской,
И душу мне цветами раскрасишь осторожно,
Но ты портрет не можешь создать реальный мой.

Тебя покинут силы и взор твой ослабеет,
Мой образ будет вечно стоять перед тобой:
Померкнут краски жизни, но он не потускнеет…
Но ты портрет не сможешь создать реальный мой.

Перевод с азербайджанского:
Руслан ПИВОВАРОВ г. Лида, Беларусь

Terane Turan Rehimli

NE MOŽEŠ NACRATI MOJU SLIKU

Možeš nacrtati sliku stabla ili kamena
Možeš nacrtati sliku zime koja blijedi u proljeće
Možeš uzeti sve što vidiš na ovom svijetu,
Ne možeš nacrtati moju sliku…

Možeš sličiti mojim očima i trepavicama,
Čak i ti možeš pronaći boju moje riječi.
Možeš nacrtati slijepo strpljenje u meni,
Ne možeš nacrtati moju sliku.

Možda možeš nacrtati srce stranca,
Možda možeš srušiti očekivanje u mojoj nutrini.
Možda možeš izliti moj duh u boje,
Ne možeš nacrtati moju sliku.

Moja će ti slika uvijek biti pred očima,
Ali ne možeš vidjeti moje vlastito biće.
Tvoj život je možda prošao, ali ta slika nikada neće,
Ne možeš nacrtati moju sliku.

Na hrvatski preveo Zdenko Ćurković.

Ulviyye Ebulfezqizi was born in Neftchala District of the Republic of Azerbaijan. She graduated from faculty of Philology of Azerbaijan State Pedagogical University (ASPU) in 2011. She wrote her first poem when she was seven years old. The great Azerbaijani poet Khalil Rza Uluturk’s brother Mahammad Khalilbeyli liked that poem written with childish imagination, published in the newspaper (“ Qelebe” ) ( ‘ Victory”) issued in Salyan District.
She is the author of the books ‘The song of my spirit’ and ‘Mysterious mirror’.
Ulviyye Ebulfezqizi is the employee at literature portal ‘ Edebiyyat and Incesenet’ ( ‘ Literature and Art’) and including she is an editor –in-chief of the magazine ( in Azerbaijan) ‘ Gufte Edebiyyat’ published in Turkey.
Her poems are regularly published in Azerbaijan and Turkey.
At present she teaches Azerbaijani language at one of the educational centers in Azerbaijan.

 Are you aware of?

You tell me I am sorrowful, are you aware of yourself?
Your smiles are false, but you say you are good.
You say I deserve praise, by praising me you feel pains,
Are you aware of your eyes full of sorrow?

You settled in a waterless place, faded while being a bud,
Are you a broken, unfortunate arm that was obliged hanging?
You said you were happy, but fell in love with grief,
What are you saying? Are you aware of your words?

Your physique is pride, is like a tall platan tree,
Your broken heart and your brain struggle.
Your love taking fire from the sun, reaches the sky
You are burning silently, are you aware of your cinder?

 I am running, I am running away

I am running away from myself
Like those who felt the trap set up by the destiny.
I am running, I am running
Like the delight running away
from the executioner of the palace
where the ruler is sorrow.
I am running, I am running
Like the hands of the o’clock
Are running away in the circle
towards the state of lack of time.
I am a work of art called as a human being
That the pen started from a tiny dot.
I am running towards the humanity.
I am running, I am running
Like the wind
Having neither wings nor and legs.
I am running
To explore myself,
I am running
Towards ‘ mysterious light door’
Behind the darkness.
I am running,
I am running toward myself
Hidden inside of my inner world.

The colorful wings of love

The lovers are the bees
Who transform the bitterness of love
Into honey.
The stings of those bees
Are created to be stung
Only into their own hearts.
The butterflies are
The colorful wings of love.
The motherland of these butterflies
Are the rose gardens.
The best times of lifetime
Is the time devoted to love.
The danger of feeling the love ends
Is the suicide of faithfulness.

Translated from Azerbaijani into English by Sevil Gulten

  TERANE TURAN RAHIMLI (Azerbajxhan)

KËRKOJ NJË VARRE QË DUKE SI MUA

Unë po largohem, Zoti më bekoftë,
Lëreni këtë mall të përshtatet në jetën time.
Nuk gjeta fjalën për t'ju thënë,
Thuaj një fjalë, le të jetë një kujtim nga ne.

Unë nuk jam vetëm, pikëllimi gjithashtu më bën shoqëri,
Kur nuk ke askënd pranë,
Edhe një vdekje mund të jetë ngushëllim
Kur nuk ka mbetur asnjë adresë për të shkuar.

Nuk gjej vend, as nuk kam fuqi ta mbaj,
U lodha për shkak të qenies sime.
Që të më gjesh kur të më kërkosh,
Po kërkoj një varr që më ngjan mua.

MOS E HUMBNI JETËN

U ndava nga shkatërrimi im,
Unë shpëtova nga tmerri,
Nga dhoma e demonëve
Të kam përmendur ty o Zot.

U shndërrova në gur me durimin tim,
Shkrimet e mia i varrosa në dimër,
U ringjalla dhe prapë vdiqa,
Të falënderova përsëri o Zoti im.

Kam veshur armaturën e mirësisë,
Çdo hap godas të keqen,
U përkula vetëm para të vërtetës,
Shkova në rrugën e duhur, Zot.

Dhimbja më zgjodhi herët,
Mbjella shpresë, korra dhimbje.
Kalova telashet me ushtrinë e tij,
Unë kam mbaruar një mijë herë, Zot.

Mbajta pikëllim në shpërnguljen time,
Të gjitha madhësitë, të gjitha format.
Zjarr nga brenda flakës
Unë arrita në banesë, Zot.

Nuk i thashë asgjë murit,
Nuk fola me askënd,
Nuk e humba jetën kot
E ngrita fjalën, Zot.

Përkthyer shqip Mehmet Rrema

O' GRAVE RESEMBLE ME!
- by Terane Turan Rehimli

I'm leaving you bless my way
May longings fit my pursuit
I couldn't find a word to say
That our intent might suit.

Pain's a companion for who are alone
And none is around to show
Death will console when all have gone
And you have nowhere to go.

There's no place to lay me in
No place to carry me, see!
I'm seized by souls to me unseen
O' grave, resemble me! (C)

January 25, 2024
Bhaktapur, Nepal.

Translated into English by Poet Santosh Kumar Pokharel. Nepal.
.

TARANA TURAN RAHIMLI 

TABLO  DIMËRORE 

Një re në qiell jakën zbërtheu,
Dhe bora gjithë rrugët mbuloi,
Me perde të bardhe u vesh dheu,
Ditët dhe netët bora i zbukuroi.

Dhe Baku-ja pati fatin e bukur,
U vesh me një fustan nusërie,
Zogjtë cicërojnë stinën e dimrit,
Mëngjeseve të kësaj bardhësie.

“Trëndafila të bardhë” janë kudo,
Petalet e tyre fluturojnë në erë,
Ato zbukuriojnë dhe dritaren time,
Me yje–yje dhe lule-lule si ylber.

Radhë-radhë janë ulur mbi pemë,
Vathët e akullit si varëse me stoli,
Si një mgji e mbuluar me mister,
Në këto ditë dimri me borë e stuhi.

Valët e qielli blu kanë rënë gjumë,
Nga deti vjenë një gjumë dosido,
Zilepsen për borën që ra aq shumë,
Për aromën e dashurisë që solli ajo.

Dhe qiejt dërgojnë bekimet e tyre,
Na sollën dëborën me lule kurore,
Duhet një furçë pikture e ngjyre,
Të vizatiojmë këtë tablo dimërore.

Translated into Albanian language
by Delo Isufi

Tarana Turan Rahimli

SOT ISHTE DITA E DHJETË

Nuk marr dot frymë, zot,
Kam një nyjë në fyt.
Dhjetë qytete të gëlltitura nga toka,
Sot ishte dita e dhjetë.

E tokave që janë rrënuar
Duke vajtuar mbi të motër.
Të bardhët ecin në re
Osmani, Katedrale.

Shembje në Gaziantep
Një kështjellë dy mijë vjeçare.
Kush do të kishte thënë Mali i Dritës
Gjysma e rrugës në dy vende?!

Në Afshin nga ugult
Ashabi-prangat u zgjuan.
24 ouch qafë
Kanceri i tij është lyer me gjak.

Gjyshërit e mi për njëqind vjet
E ngriti ngadalë,
Adıyaman ka rënë,
Betoni, guri mbeti në tokë.

Kahramanmara i Madh ş
Tani sapo ra në tokë.
Vetëm se foshnjat kanë vdekur
Dhe engjëjt u turpëruan.

Mbetur nga periudha e parë e tuncit
Historia është vendosur në Hatay.
Në mjegullën e pluhurit që ngrihet
O Zot, ai u fsheh dhe humbi.

Kurrë nuk kam parë një dhimbje të tillë
Që një mijë vjet më parë
Në përrallën e bilgamusit
Adana që e mori emrin.

Liqeni i peshkut gjendet në mjegull
Në Shanlıurfën e madhe.
Pey ğəmb ərl ər şəh əri
Zemra ka shumë dhimbje.

Malatya, Diyarbakir –
Gjurmë gjaku në çdo gur.
Isgandari është nën ujë,
Ai është një pastrues deti.

Ju dogj gjoksi, moj Turqi,
Ku ishte një luftë.
Sa mizor është fati
Ju e keni zotëruar luftën tuaj…

Ai që nuk lë gur
Unë do të vdisja për gurin tënd!
Ajo që nuk i thahet syri kurrë
Do të isha viktimë e moshës tënde!

15.02.2023.

Përkthyer në shqiptare nga:  Gjin Musa

Zemfira Maharramli (Azerbaijan)

IT IS A SMALL WORLD, AFTER ALL

Aghgul sat on the sofa, leaning against small mattress felt unburdened. It was Sunday and she didn’t go to work, she's busy around the house all day. She cooked, cleaned the house, and tired a little bit. The fridge didn’t work, so they called the repair person home in the morning.
The beginning of February was harsh. Hard frost of the grey month gave no rest. She didn’t even think to go anywhere with her family and find a place to enjoy. Despite the whim of the weather her daughter Gunel and son Azer were on their way to visit their fellow students who were in the hospital.
It was already midday. She opened her cell phone which was quiet since this morning. She was just starting to look through the news on social media.
“Oh my God, there’s a lot of stuff on the Internet right now!” she whispered.
In this cold northern city she’s been living in since long years, she was highly sensitive and responsive to events and people around her, and tried to understand everything or to follow somebody's example. When she lived in her native country she went to Russian school and now, knowledge of Russian made her feel better. She had received her higher education in Moscow called “a big village” by the people of former republics during Soviet times. She was married to a fellow villager who also studied at a university in the capital. They had two children, her husband was a university teacher. But she herself worked in a literary publication in Moscow.
Somehow they got used to the life of a strange city, but they were missing their native land and sometimes they come to the village. Maybe living in a strange country made Aghgul a poet. So, she kept writing gentle poems, harrowing lyrics about Motherland. His poetry appeared in newspapers and magazines, she was known by her signature.

•
Aghgul heard the doorbell ring and her dreams flied away. “It must be the master” she thought. She was usually right about her guess. She walked up to the door, and looked through the peephole of the door.
“Who's there?” she asked and opened the door without waiting for an answer.
A man of about forty-forty five, in a black jacket entered the room. By removing boots that were wet from the snow, he asked:
“Did you wait for the repairman?”
When he heard “yes” he put his iron box on the floor and gathered the courage to speak to her.
“I am so sorry that I'm late, that was snow became heavy, and frost too…and buses, it was like they'd been vaporized.”
His cheeks were red from the cold. Stretching his cold hands, he added:
“Let me see the fridge!”
He followed her and walked into the kitchen. Aghgul turned to her husband who was reading newspaper, said:
“This is our repairman, just came”, she opened the fridge, then added:
“It doesn’t work since yesterday! It doesn”t almost freezes”.
“They say that the best blaze brightest when circumstances are at their worst,” said her husband, checking the master out through his glasses. Then he came up to him, added:
“My name is Sarvar. Our neighbors and my workmates call me Sasha”
“And I’m Dmitri, just Dima”
They shook hands.
“It must be freezing out. It's a winter with storm, complete with violent wind and snow...with icicles. We just get fed up with them… We won’t be able to get used to this cold, even though we’ve been here a long time. How good our heat is! I mean our homeland – Azerbaijan!”
The master’s attention was at the owner of the house, though he opened the lower part of the fridge, and then assembled it. Dima liked this grey-haired and welcomed man, his Russian dialect was a little bit felt, but it seemed good to him. He also paid attention to their talks in their native language sometimes. And when he heard the word “Azerbaijan” he only turned back for a second and stood up, saying in Azerbaijan:
“I love your country too. Baku is my home town, too”
The husband and wife looked at him with surprise and they asked how he learned the Azerbaijani language. Dima sighed and thought for a while. Then he said:
“It is an old-fashioned talk. It’s connected to the story of my childhood”
He finished the repairing and packed his things into the box. Aghgul brought cups of tea. They invited the master to the table.
“You should drink tea with lemon and jam in a snowy and frosty weather like this,” said Aghgul. “That's a totally different taste”.
All three were just speaking in Azeri language. Dima started to tell them his life story, it seemed he was so close to this kind and sincere family.

•
“Most of my best memories of growing up are from this place. They are so alive now. I was at a children’s home in Ufa. I was in this house from an early age. I kept looking at the door and waiting for someone, even though we were surrounded by very nice and so eloquent nannies and educators. When I was six or seven years old, I was thinking: when will at last this sad heavy metal door open? When will my parents come to me? Alas! As a child, I realized that it was impossible to realize my dream.
Every time I asked what and why my parents wouldn”t come, they cheered up me and I have been told:
“Your parents will come for you some day, get you back home.”
Dima looked at an uncertain point and kept quiet, then continued:
“Months and years have passed by, but that snub-nosed Russian child was looking forward to the arrival of someone and languished in the waiting for parents, like those abandoned and forgotten children around him. Though we were full sometimes they treated us like an animal. They called us “orphans” or “skag” and “rogue”. It was hurting us. We haven’t understood these phrases since we were little, but we knew that they were bad words and more or less when we realized it, that was a hard blow for us.
A bit later a boy Ruslan by name had been brought to our sorrowful house. He was a pretty child, but a little gruff and didn't light up. Seeing him so sad employees of the orphanage as well as children tried to cheer up him. I felt sorry for Ruslan too, and I used to cheer up him, I almost forgot about my grief.
One day I walked up to Ruslan and hugged him, and patted him on the head. I said:
“Can we please be friends?” He got fragile and started to weep. To calm him down was impossible. Our nanny Aunt Manya came up to us and she warned me not to ask him anything. “Because if you ask him anything he starts to cry.”
Later we heard that this poor boy has no father, no mother. They both died in a car accident. When I heard about it I had weeped myself. I cried for Ruslan, even though I didn’t have any idea of my parents either. I often asked myself:
“How does he take this terrible loss? How can you forget your parents that you know and love? This pain is intolerable!”
Turns out it was true, his parents died in a car accident when they visited their relatives living in Ufa. So, Ruslan had to come here to stay with us when he was orphaned.

•
That was a long time ago, but as if she’d seen this painful tragedy with her own eyes, and Aghgul used to enquire Dima about everything.
“You must have been really very little, helpless, right? Probably you didn’t know it was time to teach you to forget all your grief, at least partially. Everything needs time. Well, and what was the fate of your friend Ruslan?”
“Our greatest dream was to live among our families. Our unapproachable dreams never left us. It was already time to go to school. We were taught and studied well. My friend learned Russian and I learned from him Azeri language. When we were ten years old Ruslan and I decided to run away from the orphanage. It happened like this: after many years Ruslan’s uncle Niyaz in Ufa found out that he was at orphanage, he had come to orphanage.
After an interview with Ruslan, his uncle gave him his address and that kind man even offered to live at his house.
The next day after a walk in the yard without warning anyone we went outside and left the house. It’s a good thing we left a letter and indicated where we were going. Before that, Ruslan told me he couldn’t go anywhere without me, and I couldn”t let him stay alone, he was my best friend and he's also a friend in need.”
And somehow, in that moment, something changed for her and Aghgul felt so sad, she just couldn”t handle it for a second. All three of them were sad. All's well that ends well, it's better late than never, they felt confident in their future, uncle Niyaz met them warmly.
“The late Uncle Niyaz loved us, raised us and gave us a chance to survive. Due to his blessings we have been brought up”. Dima used to turn the next pages of his life story. “We never forgot his wife’s concern for us. Aunt Masuma took care of us like a mother. Ruslan studied, received higher education, he is now an economist engineer. And I graduated from vocational school for the specialty of the repairing on household appliances.”
When we were teenagers and young we have visited Azerbaijan many times together with Uncle Niyaz. Baku is so beautiful! How I loved your language! I have even taught my son your language.”
When Aghgul and Sarvar found out that these friends in need were married and living and working in Moscow, they were happy. At this point, Dima stood up and said:
“Well, I should go, first to the hospital, and then home. For three days now, my son has had surgery”
At that time Gunel and Azer entered the house, they were smiling and very joyful. And her cheeks went red, she was like a snowbird, her hair was pure white from the snow. Gunel was delightful and told her mother happily:
“I never imagined that my classmate Igor was so good at Azerbaijani”. Then she saw her father and mother are going to say goodbye to a guest, said:
“Iqor told me that it was his father who taught him our language”.
Upon hearing these words, the guest was excited and joyfully asked in a trembling voice:
“What did you say? Igor is your classmate? Did you go to the hospital? Emergency section?”
Gunel shook her head, that meant “yes’.
“He is my son!”
Everyone was frozen, looking at each other with wonder.
It is a small world, after all!

Translated into English by Kamran Nazirli

The narrow world that does not fit in the palm of hand

Snow covered the whole area. In the street, attacking everything, the frosty chain howls. There is no one in the small room except the old woman. The old woman kept coughing, every time she coughed, her lungs were stuck in her mouth. The cold wind coming in from one side of the window made her shiver. - “It looks like it won't be sunny today”, she muttered to herself. – Why is it so difficult for spring to come? The cold weather is making me nervous, huh!”.
The old woman bit her lip as if someone heard her words. She repented after all, she would never complain to God! What happened now? She doesn't even know. Reluctantly putting the false tooth in her mouth, she eructed. The sores in her mouth did not allow her to put her teeth. She put the tooth back into the bowl. She was bitter about not being able to find her walking-stick and began to mutter to herself. The stubbornness and determination of her youth are still saved even in her hunched stature and the wrinkles on her face. She doesn’t want to be subservient and to bow down to someone, that’s why her marriage ended early. She was alone with her son. At the time, she did not say anything to her husband. And then she could not live peacefully like others. The only son could not support his mother. Their relationship is not enviable. Between the times when he went from country to country for trade, travel, meeting, his youth passed like water.
She was late for the morning prayer…
She took the kettle hanging over the stove for ablution and went to the yard with zeal. Usually, the old woman acts like this only when she is angry. One reason was that she couldn’t find her cane now, and the second reason was that her hoop was not in its place.
“Not one of these dishonest people is going to visit me”, - she muttered to herself. Grabbing the handle on the edge of the door, she put her foot on the slippery floor and suddenly slipped, her hand came off the handle and fell to the ground. She was scared and groaned as she hit the cold ground with her eyes closed due to the pain in her head. For a long time, a bitter pain was stuck in her throat, the pain that tormented her heart started to flow from the eyes of the old woman today. From her point of view, all the longings that had been accumulating in her whole body for a lifetime finally burst open today and the material from the skin-covered wound seemed to be leaking from one end of her leg. She was numb, but she felt a sharp pain in her leg and she thought that it was obvious that she was bleeding. She did not stop crying for a long time. Hearing her voice, the son came running from the next room.
- What happened? Why did you go out into the yard? You had a wash-bowl inside, - he said, trying to get her mother up.
- Don't touch, - said the old woman, whose voice was hoarse from crying with anger.
- Don't do that, get up, you will get sick as a consequence of cold, - said the son, holding her shoulder.
- It would be so good if I die faster. Now I feel as I am a stick in your eyes, - said the mother, who began to cry again. The son was pity and he carried his mother into the house.
- Are you feeling good?
She said nothing. The son repeated his question again.
- My leg is bleeding, tell your wife to clean it... The sheets will be dirty, - said the mother, her voice was hoarse. The son held the mother’s legs. There was no blood anywhere. He was surprised.
- Mom, there is no blood, - he said lowering his voice a bit.
- What...?
The old woman said nothing else. She didn’t pray after that. The boy brought the cane that the old woman had left in the kitchen yesterday.
- Would you bring milk? Drink it, mom, your throat will get well earlier.
The mother gestured no.
- What day is today? - the old woman asked with a groan.
- Thursday.
- Has spring come?
- It's still February.
The pain inside the old woman was renewed and she forced herself to cry again. After all, she hoped that spring had begun. If she dies, will people come to her funeral in this cold weather?! If the spring comes early and her funeral would be organized during the warm days. However, her son's words renewed her pain.
- That's it, you have complained enough so far. Don't you thank God? We have relatives and neighbours, - the son wanted to comfort his mother. The old woman could not be stopped. Troubled, painful thoughts were gnawing at her brain like a worm on an apple.
- What have I done for them that they would do a favour to me, my son, - said the old woman inside.
- Do I have so many qualities that my God did not like? - with the thought that her brain began to buzz again.. Where is her husband now? Yes, he was dead. In the eyes of the old woman, he was still alive. Her husband was a driver, he died because of car accident two years ago.
The old woman, who was not satisfied with her husband’s income, came up with something new every day in order to live well. Well, she knows how much she suffered for her mistake. Her son was talking about something, but none of it reached the old woman’s ears, and at that moment she was looking for answers to the questions that had been bothering her all her life. She thought for a long time and fell asleep.
The boy went to fetch a doctor. The bride made a roast meet for her mother-in-law. The old lady likes it. It has been six years since the doctors diagnosed the old woman with “tuberculosis”. Hearing this, the bride’s color faded. Later, she did not let her children go near the old woman. No matter what the poor thing does, what will happen if it infects her children? She made her living separately. The old woman’s dishes have been isolated in her house for more than a year. This bride turned out to be a bad person. There were many people who said that the mother-in-law should be looked after, but she is just like an old woman - she is stubborn and does not listen to anyone's words. The old woman was isolated. She lives in a yard and misses her grandchildren. It is true that a son and a daughter-in-law come to her, but... As she dreamed when her son was born: the son doesn’t visit her often. Maybe if she hadn’t parted with his father, reconciled with him and lived contentedly as she did in the beginning, maybe everything would have been as it should be?!
- Cashier is a difficult profession, you understand that, - she said, predicting her husband’s simple driving. From these words, a cold feeling began to take the place of the important bond between them. As the woman’s dreams faded away, a cold feeling spread like a thick fog. The woman could not understand it during the exact time, but it was as if she sensed that something was melting and spilling. She didn’t want to pay attention to her husband. Because she used to sit in her office as she was “decorating” the whole place that there was no one who did not compliment her or praise her beauty. Because she was so enamored with herself, neither her husband nor others were counted. Thus, the thick fog continued to weaken the bonds between them. The impatient husband divorced and married another woman. To her mind, everything happened so quickly that in the end, she remained in her pain as if she had lost. The worst thing was that she was having difficulties in this pain. The fact that her husband married someone else saddened her, she even analized her past life again and again. She was deeply saddened by this, and only at these moments she did feel as if she was distracted from unnecessary pains. She was also removed from her job while she was depressed. For several years there was a person who was self-absorbed. However, the pain prevailed and she fell ill. Doctors diagnosed this patient as “tuberculosis”. In fact, the woman’s illness was completely different. She asked God for this. “Tuberculosis” was called “punishment” by herself. She thought she deserved worse. (She still loved her husband, her previous life.)
***
“How many days should I look after her this time”, - said the bride to herself. Again she stopped herself from torturing her mother-in-law. The bride was also depressed today for some reason. - What have I done to this poor old woman? She sufferred a lot and now, my God, let her die without suffering, - she thought. She would say so, but something was gnawing at some part of her heart, she was having trouble finding a peace in her heart. For this reason, she prepared the green tea with special pity mixed with love, prepared sweats that her mother-in-law liked.

***
The son who came with the doctor, saw his mother sleeping and felt a little joy.
“Stand up, mom”, - he said, gently pushing her by the shoulder. Mother was silent. He called his mother three or four times, but there was no sound. The doctor held the old woman’s forehead and saw that the fever that was burning her in flames was now cooling down. No one could wake her up now. Something bitter stuck in the son’s throat. He was numb.

Author: Sarvinoz MAMANOVA,
Chief editor of “Iste’dod” newspaper,
Head of the literary department of the musical drama theater of Samarkand region.

Translated from Uzbek by Iroda Kholbekova,
Sophomore student of New Uzbekistan University.

Poems by Nazakat Mammadova

Motherland, don’t forgive us!

Your Qarabagh is trampled by the enemies,
Your forests are the nests of Steppenwolf
We are always reprobated by strangers-
Motherland, don’t forgive us!

The happy days are left behind in the past,
Why didn’t stones fall when moving began?
As if we have been migrants for years-
Motherland, don’t forgive us!

The flowers decorated the mountains,
When nobody walked on it, it fell out.
Oh, my God, the native lands are captive-
Motherland, don’t forgive us!

The native lands are invaded by enemies,
For me both agha and slave are the same.
How long is from Khan Araz till Tabriz?-
Motherland, don’t forgive us!

I am touchy remembering “Cidir duzu”
I shed tears calling my native “Shusha”.
I wept, cried for Khari Bulbul in enemy’s hands-
Motherland, don’t forgive us!

The lands were ruined by the enemies,
All the lands fell to the lot of the godless.
Dada Qorgud, how can you sleep in the grave?-
Motherland, don’t forgive us!

The parting with lands tastes bitterly,
If there are brave sons, but where are they?
Your daughters, daughters-in-law are captives-
Motherland, don’t forgive us!

If only the lands are got back forever,
If only the happy days returned once more.
The whole world listens to your voice-
Motherland, don’t forgive us!

The martyrs’ blood wouldn’t be forgotten,
The invaded lands will be remembered.
We shall take vengeance for the lost lands,
Motherland, don’t forgive us!

Hey, he who can suppress my anger, come,
Hey, he who can sacrifice himself as Babak, come!
Hey, he who can enter the fights as Koroghlu, come-
Motherland, don’t forgive us!

If only our voices are heard in Irevan,
If only our banners are proud in Qarabagh!
If only I ran straightly to those lands,
If my eyes kissed the lands of my country-
If my feet touch the soil of my Motherland!

The martyr top

The screams may reach to the sky,
Mother is singing a cradle song to a grave.
She embraces the cold grave every day,
As if she is at the cradle of her baby-
She is singing a cradle song to gravestone.

She looks for her son among the young boys,
The tears of longing drop out of her eyes.
Her heart is full of words- whom to tell?
She tells her words to the gravestone-
Mother smoothes her son’s gravestone.

Each day she tells him her new wish:
“My son, but you didn’t marry…
But I didn’t decorate khoncha for you.
But I didn’t spread henna to my daughter-in-law.”
Mother complains to the gravestone.

Mother begs to the sky, for to take her too,
She wishes to tell her words to the great God.
The voice is heard from the sky:
“Mother, your son is gifted with martyr top.”
Mother sings a cradle song to her son.

This is the sound of the martyr’s mother,
This is the sound of her sorrow.
Mother calms herself, she consoles
With her son’s being a martyr
Which is considered the highest at God.

The longing for lands

My heart is breaking under my chest,
If only we should value it in its time.
If only I became a wind, a mad wind,
If my words blew over my lands as wind.

The black rocks were like mountain fortress,
The mountains are the invincible fortress.
The pocked rocks are like the native sons,
My traces will be left on my native lands.

Tabriz, Derbend were once our lands,
The Goyche are ruined by the enemies.
The strangers invaded the city of Shusha,
Because of not casting glance on my lands.

The grief is like the sorrow of hearts,
This is also a destiny, this is a fate.
For many times my motherland was divided,
I am disgraceful at my motherland

If only I sacrificed my life for my motherland,
If only I knew all the secrets of my motherland,
If only I were a stone to enemies of my motherland.
If only I sacrificed for my motherland!

I long for…

When autumn comes the cranes move,
Their “homes”- nests remain empty.
They come back as soon as spring comes,
Again their “strange” nests become dear to them.

See, how many autumns, how many springs,
I long for my lands the fire of which is gone.
The cranes return back, but I can’t return,
To my native lands destiny of which is unlucky.

On one of the days I also shall return to my lands,
My heart whispers me, it won’t last so long.
If it is needed I shall sacrifice my life to death.
I say to the world: “No, it won’t last so.”

I am longing for my native lands,
I shall get over all the borders.
Of course, once I shall get over
The iron wires which define borders,
I shall get over those wires.

Article by Sergio Camellini:

THE FANTASTIC LOVE  WORLD OF TARANA TURAN RAHIMLI'S  POETRY 

The author Tarana Turan Rahimili, a well-known Azerbaijani poet, shows how poetry has a universal semantic language. The masterful translation from English to Italian by the brilliant Claudia Piccinno gives significant confirmation in this sense. Well, the anthology: "I loved even a stone" (Edizioni Il Cuscino di Stelle), wanders into the fantastic world of love, with its many facets, even with autobiographical hints. The work begins with the poem: "They will recognize me by my love", which is a significant incipit to enter the original world of Tarana. Why original? Because there is everything and the opposite of everything about love: truth, lies, crudeness, sweetness, perplexity, anguish, happiness, pain, religiosity, life, death, contradictions. Often the Poet uses the title of the poem and also inserts it at the end, therefore, the repetition of the title itself emphasizes the main theme of the composition, in a sort of Freudian subliminal message. In the poem “Life is a Fast Train,” she mentions the good Lord as she does in several of her compositions: // My God, what is happening to me? Who makes me gasp? Who rushes life? Who is hurrying inside me? //. Therefore, in this lyric, her being seems to hang on four questions, free from the word love which, however, can be read between the lines, where current events quickly become yesterday. The closed, is a poetic hymn: // Today suddenly becomes yesterday, I'm going to embrace the next day. I don't live my life, I just fly through it //. In the poem “Good morning, Rome!”, a sweet melancholy for the Eternal City, including the Vatican, is highlighted. // Your sun smiles on me in the middle of winter…Old, great Vatican! Let there always be a happy life around you. Hey, stage of the Theater of Marcellus! May you always be lost in silence! Stay away from the “games” of the world stage; enchants my spirit. Of your immortal fame. Good morning, Rome! Good morning, Rome! “. The exclamation point, which the Poet uses, is an "admiring point", to signal a tone of surprise and joy. In the poem "I am a woman", female psychology is traced with a wise hand and fine skill, making a nice contradiction: "I am not a painter, I am not a composer, not even a gardener... but I know many colors that most artists does not know: The colors of love, of desire, of pain...

With the work “I fall on the road where you moved away from my gaze”: // You didn't recognize me, because I was a small tree, they cut me down prematurely, I didn't have any shadow...I am covered by the pain of my future. I fall on the road where you moved away from my gaze. I will look for you there //. Despite everything, the author who symbolically identifies with the character mentioned, is confident in the future. So, it is an anthology in which the balance coexists between an introspective reading and reflection, or rather, a journey through the sensations and emotions of an extremely sensitive poetic soul, but at the same time firm and decisive. The verses unfold between feelings, places and memories, weaving a varied interweaving between the word love and the hardness of the stone. In conclusion, the elegant poetic self of Tarana Turan Rahimili appears in every verse of her, confirming the natural beauty that belongs to her.

Sergio Camellini

Translated into English by: Claudia Piccinno

তেরনে তুরান রহিমলির কবিতা

চিঠি যদি লিখলেই

তুমি চিঠি লিখেছিলে,
গন্ধহীন, প্রাণহীন
একটি পঙক্তিতেও
হৃদয়ের শব্দ নেই

তুমি চিঠি লিখেছিলে
শীতল রক্তের লেখা
উষ্ণ তবে অর্থহীন
কী করে পাঠালে এটি?

তুমি চিঠি লিখেছিলে
নিরাবেগ অনুভব
মন বড়ই অস্থির
রাত গেলো অনিদ্রায়

তুমি চিঠি লিখেছিলে
অন্ধ যেমন লাঠিতে
মাটি ছুঁয়ে ছুঁয়ে চলে
খোদক যেমন লেখে
সমাধিফলকে...

তেরনে তুরান রহিমলি

অনুবাদ : অনীত রায় ১৪ সেপ্টেম্বর ২০২৩

তেরনে তুরান রহিমলির কবিতা

স্বপ্ন মরে না

প্রতিটি মানুষ তার হৃদয়ের মাঝে স্বপ্ন নিয়ে মরে

মাটিতে বিলীন হয় এমনই কত অনিঃশেষ স্বপ্ন

গভীর অতল থেকে বাইরে বেরিয়ে আসে ইচ্ছেগুলো

এভাবেই ফুলগুলো পৃথিবীর বুকে মুখ তুলে চায়.

জীবনের যত সব স্বপ্নের পিছনে তারা ছুটে চলে

মানুষেরা থেমে যায় স্বপ্ন দ্যাখবার শুরুর থেকেই

সকল মানুষ চলে তার আপনার বাগানের দিকে

আশাদের কখনও কোনো রকমের শোকতাপ নেই.

সব আশা ফুল হয় আর এসে নেয় জীবনের রূপ

এসেই নতুন কোন হৃদয়ের মাঝে স্থান করে নেয়

প্রতিটি ফুলের ঘ্রাণ একটির থেকে অন্যটির ভিন্ন

জীবনযাপন স্বাদ লুকিয়ে রয়েছে অন্তরের মাঝে.

এ মাটির স্মৃতি থেকে সামান্য কিছুও বেরোতে পারে না

অবদমিত ইচ্ছেকে যে করেই হোক পাবার আকাঙ্ক্ষা

জীবনের ফুটে ওঠা ফুলের মতন

জীবনের প্রাণবান ইচ্ছের মতন...

তেরনে তুরান রহিমলি

অনুবাদ : অনীত রায় ১০ সেপ্টেম্বর ২০২৩

ছবি : তেরনে তুরান রহিমলি

তেরনে তুরান রহিমলি-র দেয়াল থেকে নেয়া

জীবন - শূন্যতা থেকে, শূন্যতার থেকে

এসেছে অস্তিতে.

মৃত্যু জীবনের সার কথা

শেষ মুহূর্তের উপলব্ধি.

জীবন - কোথায় যায়

এটুকু জেনেছো, ওটা হ'লো যাবার সময়.

পথ ভ'রে ছিলো শুভেচ্ছায়

বড় হৃদয়বিদারি.

প্রেম - হৃদয়ের বেড়া থেকে

বন্ধ হৃদয়ের ওপর গড়ায়

জন্মদিন - আরো এক পদক্ষেপ

মৃত্যুর দ্বারের কাছাকাছি.

তেরনে তুরান রহিমলি

অনুবাদ : অনীত রায় ১৪ সেপ্টেম্বর ২০২৩6

POEZI NGA POETJA
TARANA TURAN RAHIMLI - Azerbajxhan

JU NUK MUND TĖ VIZATONI FOTON TIME

Ju mund të vizatoni një foto të një peme ose një guri
Ju mund të vizatoni një pamje të dimrit të zbehur në pranverë
Ju mund të merrni gjithçka që shihni në këtë botë,
Ju nuk mund të vizatoni foton time…

Ju mund të ngjani me sytë dhe qerpikët e mi,
Edhe ju mund të gjeni ngjyrën e fjalës sime.
Mund të tërheqësh durimin e verbër brenda meje,
Ju nuk mund të vizatoni foton time.

Ndoshta mund të vizatoni zemrën e një të huaji,
Ndoshta ju mund të rrëzoni pritjet në brendësinë time.
Ndoshta ju mund të derdhni shpirtin tim në bojëra,
Ju nuk mund të vizatoni foton time.

Imazhi im do të jetë gjithmonë para syve tuaj,
Por ju nuk mund të shihni vetë qenien time.
Jeta juaj mund të ketë mbaruar, por ajo foto nuk do të përfundojë,
Ju nuk mund të vizatoni foton time.

DUKE KTHYER SHPINËN
SHIKOJ JETËN

"Deti i mendjes" së gjyshes sime,
Unë kam qenë vajza “përkëdhelur” e gjyshit.
"Rrjedha e fshehtë" e nënës sime
Unë kam qenë vajza “djalë” e babait tim.

Ai kishte besim në shtëpinë tonë
Të gjithë më pëlqenin
Ata e besuan fjalën time
Si një fjalë e vërtetë mashkullore.

Ajo u rrit në mua
Ky besim, më dha besim
Çdo ditë “zbulonte” nga pak
Babai dhe nëna ime tek unë.

Në një besim të tillë
Mësova si të jetoj.
Ata e besuan fjalën time
Mësova të qëndroj në fjalë.

Lak-lak në zemrën e foshnjës
Ata bënë një model besimi.
Ai e njohu të vërtetën në kohë
Ata më dhanë besimin.

Për të jetuar me ndershmëri
Kam mësuar nga njerëzit e duhur.
Duke mbajtur si një pishtar,
Një nga njerëzit që kamë në zemër.

Unë eca larg nga gjysma,
Unë u mbështeta në tërësi.
Në vend që të qeshja si një hipokrit
Unë qava me të vërtetën.

Rrugëve që kam ecur pas,
Unë shoh të çara në gjurmët.
Ai më mbajti mbi supe
Nga ku shikoj, shikoj JETËN.

UNË JAM NJË GRUA

Unë nuk jam piktor
Por unë di shumë ngjyra
Shumica e piktorëve nuk i njohin ato:
Ngjyra e dashurisë, ngjyra e mallit, ngjyra e pikëllimit…

Unë nuk jam kompozitor
Por unë jam në gjendje të dëgjoj tingujt
Të cilat asnjë kompozitor nuk mund t'i dëgjojë:
Harmoninë e shëndoshë të ndarjes, bashkimit dhe shpresës.

Unë nuk jam kopshtar,
Por ndërsa ndjej aromën e luleve,
Unë gjithashtu mund të ndjej aromën e ditëve dhe muajve
Kurorë aromatike ndjenjash shumëngjyrëshe
Jepi një bukuri jetës sime.

Unë nuk jam piktor
Unë nuk jam kompozitor
Unë nuk jam as kopshtar…
Unë jam një grua
Të cilin Zoti e krijoi
Në një orë të këndshme…
Aty është drita e dashurisë së Zotit
Në sytë e mi dhe në zemrën time ...

AZERBAJXHANIT DO TË JETË ME JU!

Shpirti i gëlltitur nga kjo tokë
Ishte shpirti im i plagosur.
Rrjedh nga ata gurë
Gjaku i zemrës sime.

Ku është atdheu im?
"Ndihmë" në çdo zë.
I mbytur nga ëndrrat e reja,
Në frymëmarrjen e foshnjës që gulçon.

Qytetet e rrënuara
Unë jam ai që rënkon poshtë.
Duke qarë në kokë,
Unë jam ai që dëgjoj britmën tuaj.

Këto netë pa gjumë
Errësira juaj lindi.
Në çdo shtresë orteku
Ishte shpirti im që u dërrmua.

Bota shkëput boshtin e saj,
Guri, shkëmbi është i dobët.
Qielli dhe toka janë të bekuar, o Zot,
Reja, qielli vajton.

Ajo që nuk dëshiron krijuesi
Kulla e Mijëvjeçarit po bie.
Sfidat e liga përsëri,
Po shembet, po shembet kudo.

E ke parë Turqinë time?
Dhimbja digjet dhe digjet.
Nga sytë e një fëmije
Botët po shikojnë.

Dhimbje e madhe, vëllai im i dashur!
Ai është pranë jush.
Sara do të jetë me ju
Kjo plagë është Azerbajxhani.

Si dolët nga provat,
E dini, dhe kjo do të kalojë.
Në vendin e çdo guri që bie
Mali që shpon qiellin do të marrë fund.

8. 02.2023.

ËSHTĖ BUKUR TĖ JETOSH DHE ĖSHTĖ BUKUR TĒ VDESĖSH

Nëse e mbani shpirtin tuaj të pastër në të gjitha moshat,
Ti i lyesh melhem një zemre të plagosur,
Kur qesh, qan nga gëzimi,
Është mirë të qash, është mirë të qeshësh.

Jeto me zemër, thuaj fjalën tënde,
Nëse nuk e ushqeni veten,
Nëse nuk përkulesh, mos shiko larg
Është bukur të takosh botën.

Nëse mund të mbani barrën tuaj,
Nëse mund të puthësh kokën,
Nëse mund ta jetoni jetën tuaj me nder,
Është bukur të jetosh dhe është bukur të vdesësh.

DO TË ISHTE MË MIRË VETËM PËR NJË DITË
TË JESH FËMIJË NË KRAHËT E ZOTIT

Do të ishte më mirë nëse dikush i shëndrrohet në blete,
Dhe vendosuni në lulet e botës.
Kur ju dridhen buzët nga lumturia,
Ju nuk do të mund të gjeni një fjalë.

Lëreni frymën tuaj të thahet
Për shkak të ngazëllimit.
Kur harron tokën dhe qiellin,
Zoti i plotfuqishëm të ruajtët.

Do të ishte më mirë nëse shpërndaheni si yje,
Pastaj të mblidhemi së bashku për të qenë dielli.
Për të fshirë këtë botë nga kujtesa juaj
Dhe për të filluar të njihemi përsëri me të.

Lëreni të mbahemi nga dorën e Zotit
Drita e Zotit ndrit në zemrën tuaj
Do të ishte më mirë dhe sikur për një ditë,
Të jesh fëmijë në krahët e Zotit.

TË GJITHË NUK MUND TË JENË VETËM

Strehim nën hijen e një të huaji
Aty ku nuk mund të marrësh frymë.
Rrënjët mos i bëni atdheun tuaj
Në telashe që nuk të zë gjumi në zemër.

Parfumo djathtas, majtas,
Një era e zezë ju vjen rreth
Do t'ju përzënë dhe do t'ju përmsllojnë.
Emri i një burri, është prezantimi i tij

Mos qëndroni në errësirë
Në shpellën e lakuriqëve të natës.
Në mesin e besimtarëve
Prisni, dielli do të lindë përsëri.

Shuaje zjarrin që digjet në gji
Mos ndiz zjarr në zemër të gurit
Mos ik
Qëndroni vetëm me pikëllimin ndonjëherë.

E vërteta thuhet, nuk merret,
Jo të gjithë mund të qëndrojnë vetëm.
Jeta është përtej fjalëve,
Jeto fjalën jetë në poezi.

PO JAPIM MARTIRË

Ne japim dëshmorë, faleminderit mëmëdheut,
Nuk ka vend për heronjtë e larguar.
Në shumicën e shtëpive lind një djalë,
Jo të gjithë rriten për të qenë djem.

Ne mallkojmë luftën, gjakun,
Ajo re bie përsëri mbi ne.
Një herë e një kohë, një nënë qante për fëmijën e saj
Tani ajo e mbështjell nipin e saj me një qefin.

Brezat ndryshojnë, armiku nuk ndryshon.
Lakmia e tij po rritet, dhe pak mëri.
Si ajo nënë që u shndërrua në një statujë akulli
Ju nuk mund ta mbroni fëmijën tuaj nga ngrica.

Çdo martir bëhet një yll në qiell,
Ylli i fatit të një vajze po shuhet.
Vendi i burrit në tryezë është bosh,
Shija dhe kripa e furrave.

Edhe pse e mbante kokën lart me krenari,
Babai juaj i trishtuar po qan.
Ai e di se i biri mbron tokën,
Gjen një ngushëllim: Bir i vendit tënd!

Karvanet e makinave nuk mbajnë nuse.
Dëshmori sinjalizoi largimin e tij.
Një i ri që u rrit pa baba dhe nënë
I gjithë populli qan dhe thotë “Unë jam martir”.

Basatët luftojnë në sheshin e burrit,
Fanatët nuk ngopen me gjak trimi.
Një botë e shurdhër, një botë e verbër,
Ai beson çdo gënjeshtër të yndyrës së tij.

Rasti është i njëjtë, armiku është i njëjtë.
Ai takoi marifetin dhe kurthin.
Qindra vjet gjak i derdhur padrejtësisht
Erë e freskët, ngjyra ende.

Ne japim dëshmorë, faleminderit mëmëdheut,
Nuk ka atdhe pa vdekur për të.
Me fitoren hallall që vjen pas fitores
Asnjë gjak dëshmori nuk ka mbetur në tokë.

NJERIU NË LUFTËN E FUNDIT

Zot, çfarë është kjo?
Një mur memec në të katër anët.
Asnjë frymë në të,
Cila është vdekja ime këtu?!

Errësirë ​​kudo,
Heshtje gri në dritare.
Çfarë ylli vezullues
Çfarë reje zvarritëse.

Ai është i shurdhër dhe i verbër
Këta gurë të tmerrshëm.
Nëse fluturon afër, do të rrjedh gjak
Zogjtë tuaj do të bien.

Zgjoje zërin e zinxhirit
Unë jam i mërzitur, jo nesër.
Çfarë meritë për të fituar,
Nuk ka mëkat për të fundosur.

Në pemën e ngushtë të mirësisë
E keqja e ka kapluar botën.
Ai ngriu në dorë
Pena e engjëjve.

Lutjet nuk mund të kalojnë
Nga një tavan i fortë.
Bota nuk e di
Nga stuhia e kthimit.

Loja ishte ajo lojë,
Mashtrim i ri, shesh i vjetër.
Dorë për dorë me djallin
Njeriu në luftën e fundit.

PRA, TA NJOHIN GURIN E HESHTJES
UNË HESHTA, ATË E DI GURI

Çfarë ishte ky vend, çfarë ishte ky cikël,
Kush më dërgoi këtu?
Burra gjigantë që panë një rrugë,
Më tërhoqën në njëqind rrugë.

Ata nuk dëgjuan atë që dëgjova unë,
Ata nuk ishin të kënaqur me pikëllimin,
Nuk më lanë vend,
Më thuaj, ku të fshihem?!

Çdo ditë humbas shpresat,
Kam shumë dhimbje,
Unë jam jashtë mendjes,
Më telefononi në të tjerë.

Ata e dinin që pranvera ime ishte dimër,
I hutuar çfarë bëra,
Unë heshta, atë e di guri,
Më vunë në mur.

Përktheu në shqip: MEHMET RREMA  

তারানা তুরান রহিমলি, আজারবাইজান
আন্তর্জাতিক খ্যাতিমান কবি তারানা তুরান রহিমলি আজারবাইজানের রাজধানী বাকুতে ১৯৭০ সালের ২০ ফেব্রুয়ারি এক অভিজাত শিক্ষিত পরিবারে জন্মগ্রহণ করেন। তাছাড়া তিনি লেখক, সাংবাদিক, সম্পাদক, অনুবাদক, সাহিত্য সমালোচক, শিক্ষক, শিক্ষাবিদও বটে। তিনি ফিলোলজিতে পিএইচডি ডিগ্রি লাভ করেন। তিনি একজন সহযোগী অধ্যাপক হিসেবে কর্মরত ছিলেন। তাঁর কবিতা এবং নিবন্ধগুলো বিশ্বের অনেক আন্তর্জাতিক ওয়েবসাইট, সাময়িকী, ম্যাগাজিনে প্রকাশিত এবং বিশ্ববিখ্যাত অ্যান্থলজিতে অন্তর্ভূক্ত হয়েছে। তাঁর সাহিত্যকর্ম ৩০টিরও বেশি ভাষায় অনূদিত হয়ে প্রাচ্য এবং পাশ্চাত্যের ৪৫টিরও বেশি দেশে প্রকাশিত হয়েছে। তিনি ৩০টি মনোগ্রাফ এবং কবিতার বইয়ের সম্পাদক ও পর্যালোচনাকারী। এ পর্যন্ত তাঁর ৭টি একক গ্রন্থ এবং ৫০০টি নিবন্ধ প্রকাশিত হয়েছে। তিনি তাঁর সাহিত্যকর্মের জন্য ২০টি আন্তর্জাতিক পুরস্কার এবং ১৫০টিরও বেশি সম্মানসূচক ডিগ্রি, সার্টিফিকেট, ডিপ্লোমা এবং অন্যান্য পুরস্কার পেয়েছেন। তিনি বহু আন্তর্জাতিক সাহিত্য সংগঠনের সক্রিয় সদস্য।

তারানা তুরান রহিমলীর কবিতা

বাংলা অনুবাদ:শাকিল কালাম

কবিতা-১ জীবন একটা দ্রুতগামী ট্রেন

হে ঈশ্বর, কে আমাকে পরিচালিত করছে?
কে আমার নিঃশ্বাস কেড়ে নেয়?
আমাদের জীবন তাড়া করে কে?
কে আমার ভিতরে তাড়াহুড়ো করছে?

বছরগুলো দ্রুত ট্রেনের মতো,
শুরু হতেই মাস শেষ।
সপ্তাহগুলো একে অপরকে তাড়া দেয়,
তাড়াহুড়ায় দিনগুলো হারিয়ে যায়।

রাত ও দিনের বেলা
যেন আমার বিরুদ্ধে যুদ্ধ করছে।
আমি এক সেকেন্ডের সাথে প্রতিযোগিতা করছি,
ঘন্টা আমার হাত থেকে পালিয়ে যায়।

স্মৃতিতে ভিজে যায় মুহূর্তগুলো।
সবকিছু ঘুরে ফিরে অতীত হয়ে যায়।
হুট করেই দিনগুলো শেষ হয়ে যায়,
হঠাৎ করেই দিন শেষ।

প্রচন্ড কাজের চাপের কারণে,
কখন যে সময় চলে যায় জানি না।
যে সময়টা আমি নিজে কাটাতে পছন্দ করিনি
তবুও সময় আমাকে টেনে নিয়ে যায়।

আজ হঠাৎ করেই গতকাল হয়ে যায়
আমি পরের দিন আলিঙ্গন করতে যাচ্ছি.
আমি নিজের জীবনের জন্য বাঁচি না,
আমি কেবল এটির উপরে উড়ছি।

কবিতা-২ তুমি আমার ছবি আঁকতে পারবে না

তুমি একটি গাছ বা পাথরের ছবি আঁকতে পারো
বসন্তে বিবর্ণ শীতের ছবি আঁকতে পারো
তুমি এ পৃথিবীতে যা দেখছ সবই নিতে পারো,
তুমি আমার ছবি আঁকতে পারবে না...

আমার চোখ এবং চোখের পাতা সাদৃশ্য করতে পারো,
এমনকি তুমি আমার শব্দের রঙ খুঁজে পেতে পারো.
তুমি আমার ভেতরের অন্ধ ধৈর্যের ছবি আঁকতে পারো,
তবে তুমি আমার ছবি আঁকতে পারবে না।

হয়তো তুমি অচেনা হৃদয় আঁকতে পারো,
আমার ভেতরের প্রত্যাশাকে ছিটকে দিতে পারো।
তুমি আমার আত্মাকে বিভিন্ন রঙে আঁকতে পারো,
তবুও তুমি আমার ছবি আঁকতে পারবে না।

আমার প্রতিচ্ছবি তোমার চোখের সামনে থাকবে,
কিন্তু তুমি আমার নিজের সত্তা দেখতে পারবে না।তোমার জীবন কাল শেষ হয়ে যেতে পারে,
কিন্তু তোমার সেসব ছবি আঁকা শেষ হবে না,
তুমি আমার ছবি আঁকতে পারবে না।

আজারবাইজানি থেকে ইংরেজিতে অনুবাদ করেছেন সেভিল গুলটেন।

English text:

Terane Turan Rehimli, Azerbaijan

Terane Turan Rehimli, Azerbaijan

Internationally renowned poetess Terane Turan Rehimli was born in Baku, the capital of Azerbaijan on February 20, 1970 in an aristocratic educated family. Moreover, she is also Writer, Journalist, Editor, Translator, Literary Critic, Teacher, Academician. She received his PhD in Philology. She was working as an Associate Professor. Her poems and articles are published in many international websites, periodicals, magazines and included in world famous anthologies. Her literary works have been translated into more than 30 languages ​​and published in more than 45 countries in the Eastern and Western. She is the editor and reviewer of 30 monographs and books of poetry. So far she has published 7 solo boooks and 500 articles. She has received 20 international awards and more than 150 honorary degrees, certificates, diplomas and other awards for her literary works. She is an active member of many international literarya organizations.

Poems by Tarana Turan Rahimli
Translated into Bengali by Shakil Kalam

Poem-1 Life is a Fast Train

My God, who is driving me out?
Who is making me breathless?
Who is hurrying the life?
Who is hurrying inside of me?

The years are fast train,
The month is over as it begins.
The weeks shove each other,
The days are lost in hurry.

The nights and daytime
As if fights against me.
I am competing with a second,
The hours escape out of my hands.

The moments soak into the memory.
Everything turns and become past.
The days break in a hurry,
The days are over in a hurry.

I don’t know when time passes
Because of number of works.
The time that I didn’t dear to spend myself
Is pulled off me by the time.

Today turns to yesterday all of a sudden
I am going embracing the next day.
I don’t live my own life,
I only fly above it.

Poem-2 You Can't Draw My Picture

You can draw a picture of a tree or a stone
You can draw picture of fading winter in spring
You can take all what you see in this world,
You can’t draw my picture…

You can resemble my eyes and eyelashes,
Even you can find the color of my word.
You can draw the blind patience inside of me,
You can’t draw my picture.

Maybe you can draw the heart of a stranger,
Maybe you may knock down the expectation in my inside.
Maybe you may pour my spirit into the paints,
You can’t draw my picture.

My image will always be in front of your eyes,
But you can’t be able to see my own being.
Your lifetime may be over, but that picture won’t be over,
You can’t draw my picture.

Translated from Azerbaijani into English by Sevil Gulten

Jakhongir Nomozov is a young Uzbek poet. She was born in 1997. She has been writing poetry and journalism.
The works have been published in Turkmenistan, Nepal,Kenya,India, Algeria, Spanish, Italy, China, Russia, America, Vietnam, Azerbaijan, Turkey and
Published literary sites.
Participant of the traditional Zaamin seminar of young poets.
He is a member of the World Talents International Association.
Winner of the Abay Medal.
Amir Temur International Charitable Foundation is a holder of a commemorative badge.
His poems are included in the books "Lyric Moments", "Song of the Rivers", "5 Opportunities for 5 Initiatives", and "The Glory of Free and Prosperous Days".
In 2021, the book Rebellions in My Soul was published.

POEMS  BY JAKHONGIR NAMOZOV

* * *
My footsteps get heavier
The more I walk, the heavier these roads.
I could not know whether Almighty
Had sent to me these exams and odds?

My dawns get fully darkened
When I woke up with sorrow
When all of my wishes fell down
When I am in fire above and below.

Sitting alone with loneliness,
I drink my pain uttering a toast.
If I open my eyes from dreaming
I fell down from the sky to the dust.

You my dreams, please become my life
Unhappy days are only daydream ever.
Oh God, wake me up from my life but
Let me to be in dream forever.

PAIN

Love is absorbed into my body,
I cannot help singing a love song.
Each of these poems that I wrote
Is an oath I gave to the truth.

The sparks you see in my eyes
Are the lights come from Heaven
And the wishes bloomed in my heart
Are the mirabilis you have never seen.

My hope will never wither, dry up
Spring always flourish my soul.
There is a great pain which is able to
Flourish my veins and bones at all.

I was made from love of The Almighty
Does the life know who I am?
In my tiny body, in my little chest
How much talent and love do I have?

Does the life know who I am?!

* * *
Life killed all the passion of mine,
Squeezing my heart like pomegranate.
He wanted to make my gentle white soul
Put on the sorrow’s black garment.

All my hope is becoming weaker and fading
My mountains collapsing down to earth.
Day by day my feet are plunging
Day by day my soul is losing its strength.

Lightning is crashing inside of me
As if my chest will be cleaved.
I am afraid, oh my Lord, I am so afraid
What if the whole sky falls down to my head?

* * *
I wandered and strolled million years,
Million years I begged for calmness, my Lord.
Shadows of hatred crossed my road
Million years I did not utter any word.

Oh the pain of living hopeless days,
Oh my futile wishes, flippant disease.
Oh you wine of love in my goblet
Oh love – unconsumed for million years.

* * *

I wrapped myself with old troubles,
My head is veiled with distress again.
I had promised to cry no more, but
My eyes are weeing like a heavy rain.

Picture of sorrow is in my eyes today
Like an ancient book my heart is in dust.
My life is confusing like a whirlwind
Flowers of my hope turned all yellow, alas.

I am awake while I am sleeping
I pray even though I am asleep.
I am apart from this world and time
Do you know, where had I lost myself?

Stars of the night – my sorrow, my pain
And the night itself – very loyal friend.
Indeed, I didn’t love, I were not loved?
My hatred of myself will never come to end.

My dreams take to the memory land
I hold a heap of crumpled photos in my fist
If only you would return back to me
Oh happiness left in our old pictures.

Godly sorrow blossoms in my chest
It is the great love, a poem lifelong.
It will reach souls of mankind forever
With all my heart if I sing a song.

My soul, never give up because of the pain
Always stay ready to battle, to fight.
With the heart full of sincere wishes
I welcome morning’s early light.

Oh my heart, be pure as a sheet of paper,
Dreams are different, goals are alive.
There is no any space for sorrow
I call you happiness, new page of life!