Everything in my head mingled, and in the dusk of a wild echo that viscously faints over the road of wanders, searches… of a life’s farewell dance seen as a desperate ordeal… too doomed and therefore in someway noble, but more often too humane and strained… the light is stopped up tightly.
I set out for the wilderness of the road. To the hinterland of time… To the narrow, barely visible point that paints the future of everything yet unfulfilled somewhere on the horizon.
I don’t know you. I don’t know us. I don’t know myself…
Mom.
The very first cry.
Cold film of sweat on the lips. Milk, it’s warm. Kafka languishing somewhere in my backpack.
A mirror. There’s something primal in every act. As it was from a sin, a source.
Repentance. If only one knew why…
Height, as an escape… Mountains’ echo brings crumbs of joy falling from above, where trod by the snow over millions of years, tears rush on the gnarly shoulders of Zarafshin.
River murmuring. Water is sweet.
Yagnob. Everything is different here…
May 2018
Anisa Sabiri (translated by Malika Autalipova)
