Whispers of Baku
In the hushed halls of the Literature Museum
I pause before the faded fabric
found upon Nizami’s tomb—
a whisper of silk,
perhaps once brushing
the trembling shoulder of his beloved.
(If only it were mine—
(If only it were mine—
I would wrap it around my body
like an ihram.)
Another poet was taken to the gallows
for choosing the people
over the throne.
“I am not Haqani—
I am Halkani,” he said,
and the wind carried his courage
into centuries.
Jadid poets and writers,
shot and thrown into the dark waters—
yet their broken voices still cling
to the breath of this city,
haunting every streetlight,
every gust rising from the shore.
On the road toward the sea,
autumn leaves whirl beneath the tires—
a delicate, dying ballet
performed for no one,
yet seen by my wandering heart.
Even in November,
roses dare to bloom—
pink and white,
white and pink—
as if beauty itself refuses
the cold decree of the season.
In the restless sea
I see the ghostly faces
of the poets lost in the Thirties—
their eyes turned upward,
still shimmering with unfinished lines,
still pleading for remembrance.
Will the police allow me
to gather these roses—
to scatter them gently
upon the waves,
a soft offering
to their immortal sorrow?
A famous singer lifts a song of freedom—
a voice woven from longing and defiance—
and something inside me
shivers awake.
I rise with the mild wind,
lifted into the evening air,
and drift toward the Maiden Tower.
There I perch—
where stone meets sky—
beside Samad Vurghun,
and together we let our voices
unfurl across the shimmering city:
Azerbaijan, Azerbaijan!
2025
