Come with me sotan ammâ (north). Mâpkan (excuse me) if I am only a vagabond, I will punish myself by leaving for a country at war. There I will write my poetry on the dry land. Vultures will be my only readers. I will think of you by drawing a rose on the stale plaster of bombed houses. Think of me when the planes drop their smoke and missiles on our villages.
Aga zindag bûtan, gurhâ watârâ gindan (if we stay alive, we will meet again)
Aga shumae ijâzat, bît to man ravîn (if you allow me I will leave). I will undress in the dusty kowr (river) of this village. The fumes burn my eyelids. Yes, I’m going to Baluchistan, I’m going to drown my dreams in reality, to help these people. They need me more than you do.
My dear, man sae shap djalîn (I will stay three nights) in Baluchistan. Love me until I go blind, until I forget the light of the stars, until I lose all desire to travel to Quetta and forget Afghanistan.
Hold me tight before I go to Quetta and melt into the screaming smoke. The blasts are stars of violence. It is cold at high altitude. It rained yesterday in Kalat. I went up a precipice to pick roses. The twilight announced itself in touches of ochre and roses. I whispered your name in the wind, and the wind blew me down the precipice. I fell, your name on my chest, the roses flew away, like messages of farewell.
Take my hand, pull me from the graves, from the dust of this world. Let’s go together far from the ghall (political parties) to explore all the beauty of this world. Let’s tear up the night, let’s smoke the night, let’s dance the night.
Come with me to Shalkot (Quetta), to the Sikh temple of Zahedan. The sun bathes us with its moisture. The apples taste of shared love. Further on, in the sugar beet fields, let’s watch the birds loving each other in silence like we did.
Baluchestan is full of gold and coal. Let us flee from the greed of this world. Let’s sabotage the oil and gas fields. Let’s wrap our tired bodies in the cotton of Islamabad, let’s make love without worrying about the time that flies away like a thousand rose petals.
The sorud (viol) accompanies our path, with its ten strings. The music here is meant to put us in a trance. The shervandi (epic songs) are not as poignant as our story. An old man sings sowt (lyrical song). He guessed my presence, then vanished into the burning evening.
Bite into this apricot, the morning is about to enter our room. Give me your hand, take some shârâb (alcohol) let’s go out into the crowded streets. Let’s go talk to the birds, ask the wind for directions.
This afternoon has silver reflections, a distraught roshan (light). The rainbow is made of clay, it is a staircase that leads us to the peaks of feelings in this world. For can we understand this life without loving passionately, without any other destination than love itself?
The women are threshing, and my shunz (blue-green) eyes have closed. In my burning consciousness, in the depths of my soul I heard an angel calling me. I lit a sigret (cigarette) I forgot the time.
A wasp stung me. I woke up from a long dream, I looked at the sky. A cloud came close to my cheek and I stroked it, it looked hurt to see me lying lifeless on the Quetta earth.
My hair is flying in the wind, it indicates my next destination. Come with me I am a little jand (tired). There is a discharge of barq (electricity) in the skies. Let’s go away from the fire, let’s touch the bawar (ice) of other inverted skies.
Baluchi is a language close to Persian, spoken by 7 million people in Pakistan, Iran and Afghanistan