MOTHER
All my life I wanted to kill a few people.
You came before my eyes.
I couldn’t bear that you would be upset.
You seemed to buy all their blood.
You are very rich, mother.
You still have to marry off your sons,
you have to marry off your daughter.
Don’t mind that your fate is dark,
your time is gold —
you are very rich, mother.
Your hands are in sowing and harvesting, in dust, in soil, in cow dung.
They say money is dirt on the hands —
you are very rich, mother.
You wish good luck to your loved ones in one way,
you lament for your dead in another way,
you curse your enemies
and even swear at them in yet another way.
Under your chest there is a treasure of words —
you are very rich, mother.
The inside of your palms is calloused,
the top is full of veins.
You hold the handles of buckets of dung
as if you are holding the pulse of life.
The son’s debt I have repaid to you
is not worth a bucket of dung —
you are very rich, mother.
You are very rich, mother —
don’t be ashamed that now you cannot give your son cigarette money.
—
Bahtiyar Hidayet, Azerbaijan
