by Fikrat Goja (born 1935)

Sometime we'll pass each other in one of the streets,
Your face wrinkled, my hair gray.
Nobody will ask us why we suddenly stopped.
People will pass us by or they'll stand waiting for someone.
We'll get confused by our unexpected meeting.
But our legs will do what they have to do.
Just like time, they will carry you in one direction
And me, another,
Your face wrinkled, my hair gray.

Translated by Aynur Hajiyeva

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