ZAUR USTAJ – MY MOTHER
MY MOTHER
Calling it a carpet,
She laid the world beneath our feet…
Calling it a rug,
She hung the world before our eyes…
Our world remained a rug,
Until we could read the patterns…
My Mother conveyed my Father’s word to us in her own tongue…
Some understood, some will understand a hundred years later…
In both cases, there is wisdom in my Mother’s word,
My secret history rests
In every knot of my Mother,
In every pattern,
In every carpet,
In every rug…
She wove my Father’s word into saddlebags,
Filled them for us, her children,
So they might be provisions for the road…
Knot by knot, row by row, motif by motif
She laid before our eyes the world,
And taught us that it was made of thread and wool…
Some understood, some will understand a hundred years later…
In both cases, there is wisdom in my Mother’s word,
My secret history rests
In every knot of my Mother,
In every pattern,
In every carpet,
In every rug…
She lifted the skies into the warps,
Rolled the earth into skeins…
She tied the thread to our wrists,
So we would not lose the end of the yarn…
She wove a sign a thousand times into the loom,
So it would hang as an earring in our ears…
My Mother taught us the world in flavors upon flavors…
Symbol by symbol, mark by mark,
The world passed through my Mother’s weft…
From my Father’s buckle into my Mother’s pattern the world moved…
The world is always a rug for the new world!!!
05.07.2023. Baku
Author: Zaur USTAJ
Translated by: Leyla Mahirqızı,
Mustafa Müseyiboğlu adına kitabxana
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