O choque entre a sensibilidade da natureza e a ignorância burocrática que prefere queimar folhas a entender o outono

As árvores do parque

viram o corte das florestas,

erguem os braços ao céu e agradecem

por um dia terem deixado sua terra natal.

As montanhas distantes em que confiei

ergueram uma bandeira branca.

Foram as primeiras a se render ao inverno.

As árvores estão tirando suas roupas,

como se entregassem suas roupas ao solo

para que o solo não sinta frio no inverno.

Mas a prefeitura da cidade

manda recolher e queimar as folhas.

Névoa branca nas montanhas depois da chuva,

névoa negra no parque.

A teoria do preto e branco de Aristóteles ainda está em vigor.

Mas a teoria da lógica difusa de Lotfi Zadeh

também não deve ser esquecida.

Há um arco-íris de mil cores ao longe.

E, no entanto,

eu conheço este presidente da prefeitura.

Para que a cidade fique limpa,

ele queimaria os manuscritos

tanto de Aristóteles quanto de Lotfi Zadeh.

Mas eu, olhando para estas árvores,

sinto saudade da minha terra natal.

Penso que esta teoria

é uma teoria mais precisa

do que a teoria do preto e branco,

e do que a teoria da lógica difusa.

Precisa e trágica.

Bakhtiyar Hasanov

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A ciência explica, o bolso chora: quando um fóssil de geladeira vira prejuízo a crédito!

Do congelador

de uma geladeira quebrada

foi encontrado

um fígado de ovelha

de muito tempo atrás.

Como um historiador

que desenterrou fósseis antigos

bem no fundo das geleiras,

o professor de História se alegrou.

Com curiosidade acadêmica,

ele procurou mais uma vez

no “arquivo”

da geladeira.

Mas, quando descobriu

que teria de comprar uma geladeira nova—

a crédito—

o professor de História ficou triste,

como um historiador

cujo arquivo tivesse sido queimado.

Foi um milagre:

fogo e gelo,

juntos.

O gelo havia ateado fogo

ao fígado do professor de História.

Bakhtiyar Hasanov

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Bahtiyar Ydayet: ‘The happy refugee who had no money for cigarettes’ — A shocking, ironic, and deeply moving tale of an exiled giant broken by the modern city

Musa grandfather, who had settled in the city as a refugee,
was a very big man.
In his youth, he had strangled a wolf and killed it.

But the city children
filled the inside of a cigarette with marijuana
and gave it to him instead of a cigarette.
And that big old man,
thinking the mirage he saw on the asphalt was a lake,
rolled up his trousers, took his shoes in his hands,
and crossed to the other side of the road.
The city children laughed a lot,
boasting about their jackal ways.
Musa grandfather said goodbye to life that evening.
He was the only refugee
who had died from pleasure.

Musa grandfather had carried the burden of a house on his shoulders.
Even the movable belongings of his house were living a refugee life.
Ten people could barely lift
the weight he had lifted.
But he himself did not know that
the heaviest burden he had carried throughout his life
was the shoes in his hands.

He was the first resident of this village to die in refugeehood.
It was as if he had passed through that sea of mirage.
Just as Moses had saved his own people,
he too had saved his own villagers.
Because immediately after this, many refugees died and were saved.
Thus,
Musa grandfather went down in history
as the only happy refugee.
The happy refugee who had no money for cigarettes
dragged behind him
all the unhappy refugees
and took them to the cemetery of exile.

Strangely,
a lot of wild marijuana bushes
have grown around his grave.
Musa grandfather is probably enjoying himself there too.

He should be thankful that he died.
Otherwise, because of these wild marijuana bushes,
they would have taken a lot of bribes from him.
They would not have cared
that he did not even have money for cigarettes.

Bakhtiyar Hasanov

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Bahtiyar Hidayet

Poem ‘A life shattered like a bowl’

He cherished his lover greatly,
Saying, “My flower, my flower,”
As if nurturing her
In a flower vase.

But his lover—
To unload her anger and rage—
Had turned him into a trash can.

Yet he was a man of great talent,
His chest a treasury of words,
A golden bowl.

There were many fights,
Many bowls were broken during the quarrels.

But he—
Each time, bought new bowls,
Changed the bowls.

Yet he never changed
The flower vase.
He was faithful to his love—
Madly.

In the end,
His life shattered
Like a broken bowl.

Bakhtiyar Hasanov

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Bahtiyar Hidayet: Poem ‘Apple vodka’

Mullah, this time
don’t shame me for being drunk.
You know it well—
thousands of generations ago,
our forefather was condemned
for taking a bite of an apple.
Since then,
we’ve been doomed
to live in this hell.

I, too, took revenge on apples.
First, I chopped them to pieces.
Then I imprisoned them in a barrel
until they rotted and began to stink.
But even that didn’t calm my rage.
I punished them
as if boiling them
in the infernal cauldron of hell.

Then I drank their tears.
I drank—
as if I were drinking blood.
I had become a vampire.
Now my head
is filled with the air of paradise.

Bakhtiyar Hasanov

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Bahtiyar Hidayet: Poem ‘Letter to a fellow soldier’

Ah, my fellow soldier,
In the winter war,
we wore such thick clothes
that our uniforms were heavier than our weapons.
Yet we are not respected
as much as a singer
who takes off clothes and sings about the “Homeland.”
Their buttocks
are valued more than our lost lives,
our lost arms, legs, and eyes.

Some gave their lives for the homeland,
some their arm, some their leg, some their eye.
But a singer
who sacrificed a rib
for the sake of show business
to have a slim waist
is a hundred times more respected
and more famous than we are.

Do you remember?
No matter how warmly we dressed,
we still froze.
We lit fires out in the open.
As the long logs burned,
we pushed them forward.

Do not be sad, my friend.
One day they will push us forward too,
like long burning logs.

Are you cold again?
Those who gave their lives
are cold as well.
Their bones ache now.

Perhaps we died long ago.
We simply do not know that we are dead,
just as we do not know
that we are alive.

Bakhtiyar Hasanov

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Bahtiyar Hidayet: Poem ‘Simvol’

In the city park,
a little girl, dressed like a white dove,
is giving sunflower seeds
to wild pigeons.

Do you know what I remembered?
In our land the war began like this:
A bride,
dressed like a white dove in a wedding dress,
was shot by the enemy.

Her white wedding dress
turned into the symbol of red war.
While the white dove was a symbol of peace,
it became a symbol of war.
It seems that
that little girl in a white dress tamed the wild pigeons.
But politicians, whose eyes are the color of blood,
turned even domestic pigeons
into a symbol of war.

The big ones turned the symbol of peace into the symbol of war.

The rule of the world must be given to children,
let children tame the wild big ones,
so that white doves are not painted in red.

Bakhtiyar Hasanov

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