Traveler, wake up, the road to Pamir is like a wheel of fire

The yurts make freckles in the sun
And the morning pink of Mazar-e-Sharif is an ezafé between night and day;
On these sooty stretches of grass, let us smoke the perfume of violets haunted by the wind
Traveler, get into my 4×4 and turn on the radio; the eagles blow on the engine

The Wakhan valley is very close, Afghanistan and its mirages of burnt silver
are waiting for us. Herds graze near our bodies stiffened by visions of splendor
The cobalt path of the Pamir road celebrates its God – the Tajik language
It accompanies the alphasyllabic volutes forged in the rivers, Persian accents

A ghazal flies up to the clouds, we refrain from running
To the sound of the daf (drum), our ears buzz with wild honey
The dafsaz (a cappella song performed by a men’s choir) waits patiently for its turn on the cloudy banks of this city
The lutes of Kulyab deflect the storm, and throw it upon God

Our falak (destiny) accompanies the crystalline humidity of the dark eyes of the parents of the deceased
Some time ago a law was passed; he who shouts at the coffin will be judged
The funeral rites are held in a porcelain puppet theater
Come on! A hundred meters away, the splendor of a wedding is flooded with music

The sozanda (musicians) came to celebrate the union of the colors of two souls
Let us remain hidden in the ocean of sounds, the night makes us a shimmering carpet of flashy syllables
The music waits to surprise us like a sonorous fire
In the shady banks of this city.

Traveler, wake up, the road to Pamir is rolling like a spinning wheel of fire