Untitled - Azam Abidov - poet and translator

The days whiz along the cleaned highway
We go home with a spilled milk
It isn’t time for anything
Nor for the words that creak in hinges
In a concrete plate
The underwear hangs at the stave
The notes of a weekday
Where a dust settles down like on the piano.
The stars are shining at the blue paper
In which I’ll pack the primer for my son tomorrow
Morning a dozer barks cholericly.
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