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.

There I will write my poetry on the dry land. Vultures will be my only readers. Think of me when the planes drop their smoke and missiles on our villages.

Man sae shap djalîn (I will stay three nights) in Baluchistan. Until I forget the light of the stars, until I lose all desire to travel to Quetta and forget Afghanistan.

I will 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. I fell, the roses flew away, like messages of farewell.

I hope the brilliant wind pulls me from my grave, from the dust of this world. I’m leaving far from the ghall (political parties) to explore all the beauty of this world. Let me tear up the night, smoke the night, make dance the night.

I’m going to Shalkot (Quetta), to the Sikh temple of Zahedan. The sun bathes me with its moisture. The apples taste of war. Further on, in the sugar beet fields, I will watch the birds loving each other in silence.

Baluchestan is full of gold and coal. I’m escaping from the greed of this world. Let me sabotage the oil and gas fields. Let me wrap my tired bodies in the cotton of Islamabad, let me not be worrying about the time that flies away like a thousand rose petals.

The sorud (viol) accompanies my 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.

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 hell above clouds 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 a plane 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. Forgive me if I am a little jand (tired). There was a discharge of barq (electricity) in the skies. Let me go away from the fire, touch the bawar (ice) of other inverted skies.

Aga zindag bûtan, gurhâ watârâ gindan (if we stay alive, we will meet again)

Baluchi is a language close to Persian, spoken by 7 million people in Pakistan, Iran and Afghanistan