Modern fiction and poetry from Uzbekistan, Central Asia, Russia by Hamid Ismailov
The sky is the sky not so it can be reflected in water,
the trees too are not only created to drop leaves on the earth,
but if you say that so much beauty is drunk on itself alone
you would be mistaken. Look at that old mill
while it’s turning the power of the torrent into white flour —
your heart also is heavy as a millstone,
and so as to dispel a handful of sadness in the eyes of this girl
the wind blows, the water flows, time grrrrinds and squeaks like a mill...
