The dead of the dark winter
Is deeply rooted.
The annoyed soil
Forgets not a regret for the green growth,
And the regret-stricken life
In need of a silken mantle
Lies bare and undressed.
Alas...

You, migrating birds!
You who commend union!
Each feather of yours glows in one color,
And your bitter cries
Never transcend your narrow cages.

Each one in a separate winter-quarters
On a single bough passes the winter.
How chilling,
How gray,
How smudgy
Is the WINTER here!

We conclude our overview of Azerbaijan's contemporary poets with a complete translation of Merqati's "Yad Torpağım" (My alien soil).  This poem helps -the reader to appreciate the merits of Merqati's poetical language and compare him with better known poets.

Returning from the Bitter River toward the city,
Warm and soft your palms all in mine
And your heart all bloomed or in buds,
You had one word lingering upon the lips:
Everything fine.
Everything meaningful,
Everything warm on the road to the garden.  And
Returning from the store beneath the layers of earth, The youth, ambling everywhere,
Sprinkling flowers under the feet.

Coming back from the Bitter to the city,
Spreading out your hair do you remember?
You wondered:
How gently the Bitter flowed!
I responded:
The gilded yellow crops,

The deep green gardens
Stretch as far as eyes see.
Alas...
The earth and heaven in communion then.
Lo! Lo!
You who migrated with me from the same place,
And camped in meadows,
Tell me, one by one,
If the Citadel we made of baked bricks still stays?
Father complained:
Why my descendants as well as my tribe
Never did grasp what I said to them?
Mother complained:
Why my descendants-all my property
Never did grasp what I said to them?
The sons and daughters groaned:
What for the fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters,
Never did grasp what we said to them?
Later all of them moaned:
We did not grasp our own words!
And in ruin the fields you once saw all deep in ashes,
Filled their hearts with lead;
The air dense with smoke, smoggy,
In ruin the towers we built lowering in the skies.

Like our dreams!
And along the road we migrated through,
Regeneration and unity, sterile and stale,
Were carved only on the stones.
"We forsook our hearts in the remote lands,"
So spoke everyone.

On the banks of the Bitter -in fine-
I failed to grasp even one word
Of what our migrated tribe declared.

Ah ...
What words do I have for you?
My confidants
With whom I shared my pains and sufferings,
-In the same language-
"The estranged acquaintances,
What to tell you?
Oh, foster-children,
You will never understand what I mean!
Nor will I
What you say,
Since the Bitter is transformed into blood
And the cursed smoky, foggy "field of jackals""
Is left behind.

Coming back from the Bitter to the city
Frozen were your palms in mine
Chilling were your looks,
Strange were your words all,
You wondered:
The Bitter is dried up.
I responded:
The gardens lie in ashes as far as you see.
 "Famished crows are perched on the ravished fields."
No more spoke anyone up to the city.
0
0
0

Thousands of tongues spoke in earth's mouth:
Not without reason
- The winds storm
- The freezing breezes cut.
And the silenced outcries,
Grey - colored,
Tucked out of the windows,
Like the grey film of the fog.

And as I watched,
Dislocated were
Eyes, faces, and even words
And nothing more,
Save vague faces,
Blurred faces,
Ripped out eyes
Together with smoke and fog.
And the blood;
drip, drop, drip, drop, drop,
 Ebbing away out of death's claws.

Only ...
One word lingers in the air:
Loneliness ...
Alienation
And death coming on.
Death ...
Death coming on.
Alas..
"The walls of the citadel are falling down."
Falling...  down
Falling...
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