To Maigul

Zarina Nurakhunova

You were small as a spade.
Now a spade stands at your grave.
What’s left of you now are the dates
of your birth and your death.
Toward the city your naïve mound
on this hill turns, looking,
as your naïve ears would tilt, listening.
Daughter of mine,
bloom of mine—
Beloved.
Your grave lies soft—a gentle rabbit’s knoll.
A headstone’s worth—five pounds—won’t make you whole.
How could I place you beneath blue stone?
I won’t, my moon, my pretty one.
What’s the need for a stone?
Let winter wrap you soft in snow,
and summer grasses gently grow.
Let the pouring rain of May, the month you came,
fall down like tears and speak your name.
No need for a stone.
Don’t sulk, my heart, don’t sulk.
When friends come by and hold you near,
the cold should shrink away from here.
What stealthy grief still dares to stay?
Don’t sulk, my heart, don’t turn away.
Are you the only one left here
whose joy and daughter have disappeared?
When winter leaves, in green spring,
tulips will blossom on the hills.
Don’t mourn the past, don’t grieve again.
Don’t sulk, my heart, don’t cry in vain.
They call patience pure yellow gold,
so stop stirring up the ache I hold.
A daughter, that curse of bliss,
was born to go, and leave us this.
Don’t sulk, my heart, please, don’t sulk.