The temperature has risen to thirty-seven
As long as there are officials like you
It is still the year 37 for intellectuals
The repression is still continuing.
Bahtiyar Hidayet
Bahtiyar Hidayet, born in 1974 in the Gazakh region of the Republic of Azerbaijan, graduated from university in 1995 and has been working as a history teacher since 1998. Wrote poetry since high school and has 4 poetry books published in Azerbaijan.
Heat 37, Year 37(1937)
You wouldn’t care about me
So many people circle around you
Your flocks muddy the water
While I feel nauseous
Your eyes are bloodshot, bright red
But only white drips into my eyes
There has been no oil in our house for ages
But oil drips from your cheeks
You have learned the language of jinns and devils
Even a jinn would be frightened by my ragged clothes
You extract juice from a juicy position
They hook me up to an IV and give me juice
You are a historian, but in history
You won’t remain as long as the geese of Rome
You have skinned so many people
But you could not see inside anyone
You would even pluck the feathers of the geese that saved Rome
Just as you can fleece people
You make a profit from everything
You could even shear wool from an egg
You didn’t let me into your office
Who am I to you? Yesterday’s child
You stand as if you had watermelons under your arms
Look at the thermometer under my arm
Look at the thermometer under my arm
The temperature has risen to thirty-seven
As long as there are officials like you
It is still the year 37 for intellectuals
The repression is still continuing.
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