THE FIFTH SEASON
The colour sticks to my eyes,
Or green, or red, or white and blue,
Until now I didn’t recognize it,
An alien colour – it is life, there is no miracle.
A sense will be born soon,
Neither gladness, nor care, but a stranger feeling
Not a blood in my tendon, rather a wine,
I am the basin neither new nor old.
My ears are slaves for one melody,
Its tunes neither playful nor sad,
My worlds fill with thought -
The muezzin is calling for prayer.
The lightning which lit up my mind,
Preparing the fifth season for me
My feelings are painted… white,
The world which I selected is real.
-- tr. Asror Allayarov, from "THE GATE OPENED BY ANGELS"
A Muezzin Calling from the Top of a Minaret the Faithful to Prayer -- Jean-Leon Gerome