Thursday , 22 April 2021
Naxcivan

DON’T GO, STOP, I HAVE SOMETHING TO TELL …

It’s time to leave, there are only 3 days left, I know you have to go. Even if I want to, I can’t stop, you’re already a passenger. But wait a minute, I have something to tell. I’m doing you out of your way, best, but you have to listen to me … I’ve always loved you, you know. That’s why I was asked to write about you every time. Because there are very few people in life who love you. “What can be written for the fall,” they said. But you have always been my season. I loved you with your charm, romantic-drizzle, yellow-golden leaves, and sorrow, as if reflecting the end of a life … I created pictures from you in my writings, I turned every pattern, every “look” into verses of my poems.

Stand up, listen to me … You’re leaving now. This year your arrival and  three-month existence was just a moment. It’s as if you came yesterday, you’re leaving today … I didn’t notice your arrival, your presence for exactly three months, now that the moment of separation is approaching, I feel that the time has come, your farewell time. This year I did not praise you at all: neither your charming appearance, nor your whispering to people in the streets and alleys, nor your delicate rain, nor those yellow-gold, henna leaves. Do you know why? I say, you “listen.” Don’t leave someone who loves you differently from all seasons without listening to these words …

Only five days after the arrival of this year, the Patriotic War began in my country. War is not easy, it brings horror to homes. We mothers were very scared at first, to be honest. As someone who saw the first Karabakh war of the 1990s, we were very scared. The pain we suffered in those years, the events happened us, the losses we lost scared us. Our children, whom we sent alive and embraced dead, were very afraid of the carnation-colored blood that was torn from their petals on January 20 and given to the world. But the war had already begun. Our sons went to Karabakh – to the front with you, started a war with you. Exactly 44 days … This season, those who didn’t like you were amazed by your courage, bravery and care. How long have you endured, Autumn? This season, you drew into the rains of the past years you did. You “gritted your teeth” and were very patient, you didn’t rain, do you know how much time you gave to our army for victory? If it had rained in those mountains, on the rocks, on the plains, my soldier’s boots would be heavier than mud, and their movement would be difficult. Their steps would lose speed. Water is life, they say, but water is also death, isn’t it? The rain is water because it would wet, my soldier would get cold, he would get sick, which would hinder our victory … Have you endured like this, Autumn? How you squeezed the tears, not a drop was visible in his eyes … The leaves became a mattress, a blanket, a pillow in the trench for my soldier. You were the season, but this year you became a mother – autumn mother. A baby takes such care of just mother…

You weren’t loved, they used to say to you, “What are we going to write about in the autumn?”… When you came, they would say, “It came again to pollute the streets with his leaves, he came again to destroy our beloved greens, he turned them yellow, he came again to rain and muddy our roads.” You were an unloved season … … No, no, it was said that, we were wrong. You brought the salvation of my Sugovushan, the revenge of my martyr-hero Mubariz … You brought the freedom of Fuzuli, who was the same name as the great poet Fuzuli … you had the hand of the martyr that, wiped the tears from the eyes of Khudafari… You brought together the twins, Nakhchivan and Zangilan, in Karabakh… You invited that Gudadli who were looking out from centuries away, to this century… You realised the dreams of the beauties of the white-robed and the white horse braves in Shusha, and by this way he removed the fogs from the skies of our Shusha … You realised promenade of the black lucky horses of Karabakh  in our Aghdam. You had the heroes who scatter amulets in Kalbajar.You were the ones who returned over Lachin to its owner without a bullet…

 Are they the only ones? No… The one who turned the 30-year-old grief and sorrow of Karabakh into joys and happiness. You had, only you, a bandage of bloody wounds for 30 years. You had the doctors of the patients who were sentenced to 30 years in prison – the martyrs … You had the power and courage to unite the lands separated from Shah Ismail Khatai till now. Years ago,yuou ended the Karabakh’s thirst for its native religion with Qur’an brought from the Holy Kaaba with a thousand wishes…you, you had the tears of joy in the eyes of the refugees and the smoothness of the wind in their faces. You are a kharibulbul that blooms from autumn to spring with joy- Love of victory…Stand up, listen to me. You’re spring this season, you know? You dedicated your life to the martyrs and became a spring. Hundreds of leaves were scattered over the spring. The greens left half of the spring life were a guest of the fall, in 44 days. 2783 springs have passed from our lives at once: in these springs neither trees bloomed, nor did they grow, nor did they bear fruit. You squeezed your chest, you didn’t make it rain, you made rain the tears of hundreds of mothers, fathers, children, the eyes of the whole village looking forward… Rain of victory and joy… Tears of sorrow mixed with this joy flowed, you became the season of victory, the season of courage, the season of country, the season of land, the season of honor and zeal …

  Every leaf you yellowed in the trees was a lifetime – the life of a martyr. Each life was portrayed in gold-yellow paintings. Interesting, in frameless tables. You say, “is It a picture without a frame?” Yes, it is possible. When the land turns into love, when the Motherland is the eye light , when the country is honest, the frame of the paintings of those who died for it becomes an eternal pride.

Stand up and listen to my last words. Now there is no one who does not love you. The season of victory, the season of martyrs… You, like our martyrs, have gained an eternity. You’ve been a season forever. You have become the season of 44 days, victory, triumph left in the history. Hundreds of our martyrs and veterans will be remembered with you forever. Great history and words of pride were written on their leaves… You were the season, you have already become a chronicle. Now, instead of saying “What do you write about autumn”, now there are millions of people who write about you…

Go, this time we see you off with victory. Return with a year of the Day of Remembrance of our martyrs, the Day of Victory of our Motherland and our martyrs. O eternal season. How lucky you are, there is   blood of martyr and your veteran, grave of martyr,  a flag of victory on your chest. Eternal season of Azerbaijan, good luck to you …

Author: Matanat Mammadova

Translator: Emin Gulmammadov

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