Epitaph or Deed of Agreement
Maybe, one day these silence of the century will be translated—a new chapter in the name of Mounota is added to your linguistics—if I fall asleep in that moss-green tomb, you can rescind the voice of the stars. And join on my epitaph in a soft tune—where immersion in the mountains— in the silence of solitude.
That life I have lived, it is not but the bridge of the name of glories childhood, boyhood, youth and ….and the death is— just a splendid bird—picks up `the life’ from heart—the sweet grain.
Everyday which light comes to us—drilling the concrete of fog—I make it dance on my palm like a spinning top. Thus I catch the earth on my hand, then see, the God remain unfriend of me.
And you, a mirror imagery man—abandon some sign for shadow in deed of agreement of life and death.
A Miraculous Cavalier
All think authority of stars, I want just light—some say, it is a poetic illness—I have to accept and leave—toward facing the red china roses— the ant-routs trace a path that arose from the cold winter- and accept their guidance.
I am not a sailor—I walk in the light of the constant- there is no faith in the compass—just for pole-love.
I am the groom that horse, give him the dream-grass-there is nowhere in his absence in the galaxy—consequently, can go to the Neptune for a moment, Falkland, Zanzibar, Vanuatu or Shakira’s secret bedroom—I call him the horse to imagine—
The time of escape is today—the constant left with light, before the fall of the meteorite again—I go to the holy mountain.
The Mourning for not returning Voices
Rather, a night is mascara than a day—as the death than the life—oh, if you know how much oxygen deserves— to the atmosphere, when does the last moment breath in the lungs.
Oh giraffe you have no speech—what would be with such a great throat? Like me—this much talk with the God—but he does not understand the language of the people- rather, if I got a linguist, I would know, how many letters e in the God’s language.
Exactly, who returns my words to me, he is none other, this mute hill- I have come to know— it is just the breast of mother— earth—but he knows that the perfect sound imitation—
O echo, who is your great wordmaster? From which the joyous garden you get the satisfaction regain of the lost child—my words are returning back to me like the pet hopper, but to the sky—to the sea—to the desert I throw the words hundred times—on this long life did not return anything.
Translated by Qazy Mohammad Ashraf
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