I translated the poetry book by Uktamoy "My heart is weeping" from Uzbek into English. This book published in India, 2009.
1
My pillow is an endurance,
The pillow shares my secrets
On it there were painted
Colorful flowers so bright,
Every evening I water
The sad flowers
With tears of my eyes.
The buds would laugh.
Every night make
A compromise with day
The tolerance ending
The missing leaks tick-ticking.
Scared from this noise
Its flight a butterfly would take
Sitting on the flower
Leaking down a little pool
My tears would make.
Being tired of my grieves
The flowers would joyfully float
On the streams down.
No sign is left
on the pillow
from the flowers, alas.
In the desert of love
I’m still wandering
Its tolerance overfilled
The flood of missing
Would drown me one day.
2
Your thoughts would not let me to live
At nights the missing would scream.
The helplessness would break
My hopes into pieces one by one.
Thinking of you, missing you
Escape your thoughts I would.
How overflowing, stubborn they are.
They would come on
Offensive again and again.
In this battle defeating or failing
Tired I was as a restless wind
Should I not think of your thought
They would break out my heart.
Being thought a thousand times
Its sweet taste has gone
The grieves of the dream not realized
Are stinging heavily at my heart.
Drowning me in your thought
Are you on the seventh heaven, my Prince?
When will you liberate me
From the toils as heavy as pain?
3
A passed day is a memory
There is no way back.
I’m autumn turning yellow like hay
Over my head winter
Is sharpening its sword
The mad heart is longing
For spring to come.
4
DAME’S VIOLET
This flower opens only at night
The dame’s violet would wake up
From the noise of the galoshes’
Shriek-shrieking noise
The flowers would drink
Thirstily the moonshine
From the palms of the night
5
In my spirit the mad night
Is dancing, swaying
On each road I’m running
Being tired looking for you
My heart is flowing
In the mad stream of love.
My eyes would go deep
Into the mud of missing
Into my palms are falling
The woes of the grief wowing
Like the false words of yours
Dropped from the sacks of gypsies
6
A FLOWER TREE
I saw enormous flower trees in India (author)
Capricious flowers are making charm
To their cheeks hands would not reach.
On my breast pressing their breathes
On the lips I would lay my face tight.
For a thousand years no word being uttered
The feeling would seem flooding out.
These trees might be lovers
Whose patience has blossomed
Expecting long their beloved.
7
My missing has grown green
The night is grinding it
In a little mortar
Blending in the rose flowers
I would rest with their leaves
I would like to swing hanging the robe
On the pleasant flavor of serine
I would like to tidy up the hair
Of the rays of the moon right
I’m drowning in your world.
In you my thoughts would sleep.
Wherever you might stay dear
My feelings would blossom there.
8
I would make a pillow
The leaves of the basil
Let the basil know well
The troubles of my soul.
The love is flying,
Its wings slapping.
Come, sprinkle water, rain,
The heart is burning, rattling
That heart-beaker of mine
Would not hear my woes
Being in a far distance
Left its victim
Caught in a trap
1
My pillow is an endurance,
The pillow shares my secrets
On it there were painted
Colorful flowers so bright,
Every evening I water
The sad flowers
With tears of my eyes.
The buds would laugh.
Every night make
A compromise with day
The tolerance ending
The missing leaks tick-ticking.
Scared from this noise
Its flight a butterfly would take
Sitting on the flower
Leaking down a little pool
My tears would make.
Being tired of my grieves
The flowers would joyfully float
On the streams down.
No sign is left
on the pillow
from the flowers, alas.
In the desert of love
I’m still wandering
Its tolerance overfilled
The flood of missing
Would drown me one day.
2
Your thoughts would not let me to live
At nights the missing would scream.
The helplessness would break
My hopes into pieces one by one.
Thinking of you, missing you
Escape your thoughts I would.
How overflowing, stubborn they are.
They would come on
Offensive again and again.
In this battle defeating or failing
Tired I was as a restless wind
Should I not think of your thought
They would break out my heart.
Being thought a thousand times
Its sweet taste has gone
The grieves of the dream not realized
Are stinging heavily at my heart.
Drowning me in your thought
Are you on the seventh heaven, my Prince?
When will you liberate me
From the toils as heavy as pain?
3
A passed day is a memory
There is no way back.
I’m autumn turning yellow like hay
Over my head winter
Is sharpening its sword
The mad heart is longing
For spring to come.
4
DAME’S VIOLET
This flower opens only at night
The dame’s violet would wake up
From the noise of the galoshes’
Shriek-shrieking noise
The flowers would drink
Thirstily the moonshine
From the palms of the night
5
In my spirit the mad night
Is dancing, swaying
On each road I’m running
Being tired looking for you
My heart is flowing
In the mad stream of love.
My eyes would go deep
Into the mud of missing
Into my palms are falling
The woes of the grief wowing
Like the false words of yours
Dropped from the sacks of gypsies
6
A FLOWER TREE
I saw enormous flower trees in India (author)
Capricious flowers are making charm
To their cheeks hands would not reach.
On my breast pressing their breathes
On the lips I would lay my face tight.
For a thousand years no word being uttered
The feeling would seem flooding out.
These trees might be lovers
Whose patience has blossomed
Expecting long their beloved.
7
My missing has grown green
The night is grinding it
In a little mortar
Blending in the rose flowers
I would rest with their leaves
I would like to swing hanging the robe
On the pleasant flavor of serine
I would like to tidy up the hair
Of the rays of the moon right
I’m drowning in your world.
In you my thoughts would sleep.
Wherever you might stay dear
My feelings would blossom there.
8
I would make a pillow
The leaves of the basil
Let the basil know well
The troubles of my soul.
The love is flying,
Its wings slapping.
Come, sprinkle water, rain,
The heart is burning, rattling
That heart-beaker of mine
Would not hear my woes
Being in a far distance
Left its victim
Caught in a trap
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