The Age of My Father
I haven’t yet reached the age of my father
Still I feel surprisingly sick.
My father at my age
Knew not what a staff was.
I hate inclement weather
My veins are constrained by the piercing autumn wind,
Only the crows enjoy such weather,
Chasing each other, unable to share a nut.
My childhood reminiscences are still alive,
The crows threw nuts on the roof with a terrible noise.
Maybe those are the same crows.
Crows live longer than men.
I watch them bustle and play and chase each other.
Still, a crow will never peck out the eye of a crow.
Perhaps that is why they live so long,
Perhaps that is why their days are so long.
Translated from the Uzbek by William Dirks.