A park of wonders, where I dropped a stinky trace,
I speak the truth, no f*ing joking here—
For as I walked, a sudden pain did race,
And struck my gut with sharp, unbidden fear.
Around me, passersby with hurried pace,
I count them, yet I seek a quiet spot,
A corner hidden well, with quiet grace,
And there, with scratch of branch, I find my lot.

A wondrous garden, sweet with fragrant air,
Where morning's light delights the soul within,
In shadows soft, I find my solace there,
Beside a rose, where nature does begin.
The crows do cry, the snails they crawl with might,
The dew upon the grass, a fleeting grace.
And fate, it seems, in moments calm and bright,
Reveals itself, unknowing in this place.

Within this lonely, tranquil, leafy land,
A figure stirs, an Uzbek in his dress,
A gardener of the streets, with broom in hand,
Distracts me with his talk, and I confess —
Through tangled brush, his steps a sudden breeze,
He speaks of nations, politics, and more,
As though, in paradise, his mind finds ease,
And shakes the peace of nature’s sacred floor.

So many here, diverse in every way,
From every corner of that old empire.
Greetings, my friend, though I must turn away,
For silence, now, is all I can desire.
The garden fades; the autumn winds do call.
No topic now remains for us to share,
Let’s end this moment, leave without a fall,
And part, with silence still between the air.