The blood colour of our Misfortune

Adalat Asgaroqlu

Epic poem

(15 years  passed after the Khojali slaughter)

It isn’t a sorrowful distress
for to weep bitterly,
or to squeeze out a tear
and to spit your sorrow and
brand in the thirst of your tears.
It isn’t misfortune for to be kept
and to keep in the deep of the heart,
to keep for years…
As heritage to the grandsons.
To throw it?
How to throw?

Or to swallow?
How to swallow?
If it is so
Won’t our sons ask  us the reasons?
Won’t our sons ask us what kind of sons
are we?
My heart! My love!
Is there such kind of citizenship?
Or to sell it?
To whom to sell it?
Is there such kind of trade?
Or such kind of shopping?
It isn’t a ground
for to measure arshin by arshin.
And make  it enticement  for betrayers.
And give this distress to the passing days,
     
             months and years.
And then to turn your face
to the each part of the world,
And  begin weeping or aching.
Or to break off your face and cheeks.
The gold blood flows
It  flows into the pages of the history.
It  flows ….till the end..
It flows till the well -groomed places,
It flows till the  beaks of the pigeons
       
 Or till the dogs having support.
It is full of blood ….up to mouth and throat.
I wonder why do we call it distress?
No, my son it isn’t a distress..
It is a saint heart! ..heart.. heart. ..heart..
And…..it is also Azerbaijan..
There is pure blood in the middle of this country.
It flows ..flows ..till the end..
It flows from Khojali till Baku..
From the palaces full of blood
Till the rents being tired of..
From The UNO till the OSCE
It flows car by car….car
As camelcade….Train by train

It boils up….
It doesn’t know  what limit is….
It doesn’t know what border is….
It flows ….it boils up the borders..
The blood of babies….old and young people..
It is an unusual accident….
My heart….show the power of the words!
Show the power of the words, poet!
The attempts upon this nation
wants holy word….
My country!….eaten from inside and outside.
All speak about you….
My country!
The enemies hammered in babies on your breast
The babies had soothers in their mouths
Made from the bosom of their mothers….
Where will you carry the boiling samovar
Which has been tied on your back?
My country! On the fate of destiny
the doors are opened..
The doors are opened innocently,
the smiles blow plaintively..
Come ….lovely wanderer!.
The blood which is not able to be divided
It is yours!... The dead who
are not seen in the blood
are  mine!
The blood grows steaming,
the blood is fed by itself..
Looking as question and exclamatory marks..
This blood flows  with emotion and rapidly
It flows as Mad river Kur….
It runs as deer and roes….
It is hot still …
It is aching heart still.
Don’t ask this blood to stop…
Don’t ask!
If it stops it will  coagulate….
What will happen then?
This blood will be black if it stops.
There is pure blood in the middle….
It flows…
It flows till the  big ..little sins..
It flows through the stubbornness and obstinacy ..
Or through the perfidy of states….
Till which end of the world?
Till the smoke- black Misir
or till icy Siberia….
The flue of the patience are knocked down..
Till the endurance and grave….
The blood colour of misfortune….
Blood….Blood….Blood...
Dye the sky….Dye the sky till it is divided
Wrap up the Earth till this love dies!
                  * * *
Both the oil and humour are ours….
What is ours ….you owned them ....misters!
           Our table- cloth is full of National Riches!
             When seeing you are pleased
              Come, misters, come,  secretly
.              and crawling on all fours.
               What are lost is ours.
            We lost  deeply.. and profoundly
The order has been given….
Order as heavy as batman….
Order is going fast
speaking about our lost places….
But the places are not ours still….
This order is going leading
our words….
Why not my word not to burst?
What will do my word then?
The world heart of which is full of
grief and sorrow.
….My blood boils up.
Let those who owned our riches
Be master of this grief…..too.
National riches-
This is the blood of the nation….
This is living history….
You ,conscience , you also know this history..
I spoke about conscience…
The blood is conscience….
The colour of it is rosy…
Hi….blood sucker, taste this blood…too.
It is not cream ..but honey!
This blood is innocent

It is pure blood….
It is better than oil too...
If you switch the mathces it will burn….
Now you are aware of my colour.
My colour is black as mazut….
Which you reproached….
Which bleeds quickly….
Bloody Poet!
The carnations are red as the blood..
Oh… those years…
Oh these years….
Those carnations rained as black rain
Into the darkness of the night.
Those carnations blazed as gold
As light in the darkness.
They  robbed them..
Those carnations flew towards daybreak..
How many carnations were there in the streets..
I can bunch up those carnations..
Till my bosom becomes full of them..
Except the enemy.. I can also attempt at myself..
This rose is a bud still.
Blood is spurting out of its breast
A little girl is crying saying “blood ..blood”

Her eyelashes are frozen…
All around her is fire…
With the help of the flames of fire
She causes to speak the destroyed souls
How quickly this girl brought up….
She brought up in a twinkle..
She brought up in the blood….
She is staring after her blood..
She blossoms as buds and buttoms..
She blossoms..
She is the best beautiful of all blood
Where are you going towards?
Are you going far?
If you go far
You will be tired..
You can writhe because of
bitter reproof and reproaches
You can be winnowed as thrashing floor
Don’t go far…
This Earth is round
It is not wide as you supposed….
Don’t stop in the place
Which is encircled and engaged…
Try to acquire wings…
Take wings, my crane!
Fly to the Sky!
Say about this to the angels…
Speak about all that happened…
Say that you were a sucker…
Say that you are 15 years old now…
                *         *             *
Hi….Who is behind the door?
Who is knocking at the door?
Who is chinking the windows?
Who is throbbing as memory and
Moving as a hope?
-I am sinless blood!
-Oh!
-I am going , my grandfather!
-Don’t go!
-I must go!
This is blood!
This is our brother,
This is our sister or mother!
This is an Azerbaijan citizen..
I am the  son of this country!
They say that I am a fence for the enemies

This blood is mine,  too..
I must be might of this blood!
- Stop for a moment!
- No,  my grandfather!
This is blood. This is blood .There are nations
Who will never give even a spoon of blood
Why must we spend our blood?
Blood- This is National Riches!
My blood ….
You are choked sometimes….
At times you break down…
Blood ..as gigantic as my ground..
Why are we not sacrificed for you our hearts
Why, My Azerbaijan!
I am your slave, my motherland.!
Order me!

Translated by Sevil Gulten