Untitled - Azam Abidov - poet and translator

An eagle in flight
That day I could not write
I saw an eagle in flight.
It flew so close to my balcony,
I thought it was about to enter my home –
Some time ago,
a smaller bird did dash in by mistake. Poor bird,
in fearful panic, it kept banging its head against our walls.
I had to close all the room doors, switch off all the lights,
use a torch to guide it back to the balcony,
the boundless air.
But this eagle I saw flew higher and higher,
smaller and smaller, far above the sea,
tracing parabolic lines in the sky ...
No one said it should have to soar that high.
Perhaps it liked the air up there, the view.
Perhaps it liked the wind swishing by.
And if it felt like circling low,
it could do so any time.
No one would ask, ‘Why
are you flying so low today?
Are you being lazy?
Have you lost your might?
Are you an eagle
if you do not fly high?’
No one would ask.
Not even itself.
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