Untitled - Azam Abidov - poet and translator

The pines along the way from foot to sidefoot shift
may they sustain their standing to beg the sky for a gift
cannot her blinded grey be bright at least as long
as the lark sings somewhat sadly his singleworded song
No one will answer him or whisper even or show him
what colours will she blend into her latest poem
is she not somewhat old as all those years grow fainter
still like a little girl every day to play painter
But then someone smacks a brush on the cloud’s black heart
with radiant bright yellow
now then let it start
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