Bašiskija by Abdulah Sidran

This morning, in the middle of summer, the snow fell, heavy
and wet Weeping astonished gardens, I record it and keep quiet because
I’m used to miracles. I see, through the shop windows, worried passages of faces, and
mute Where will he end up, God, who knows everything? I am not blaspheming, I received this loneliness as a gift, not as
punishment, as superiority, not at all horror. It will arrive, I know, tomorrow, some people. Someone had to
die tonight, too. My soul is ready, like a spool and paper in
front of me. Silence and chama. Who did you tear away from the city tonight? Whose name will we mention in the morning, with tobacco and
coffee, in the coming days? One should be wise, let the horror
of waiting on one’s face not manifest itself. Because it took me a long time to realize: this is a city where
all diseases are contagious. Love spreads like jaundice and plague. And hatred rises equally. Am I not, perhaps, too alone? It’s
not good, I’m so used to loneliness. Am I right, God? So, once upon a time (and it is written), a red lilac rain over
the city, confusion and rear grew like weeds. And there are few healthy souls in the city. And it is right that this is so. Because, where does the
disease come from – I understand, but where does the health come
from? Is it, God, really, where does health come from? Do these people around me ask that (which I also receive,
knowing that no two are the same, neither in front of you,
nor in front of my face), do they ask? And do they know I’m watching them? How their hearts would tremble to see these lines! If I sin
against myself, only then am I right with others. If I sin against them I do justice to myself. What is the truth then, tell me my God? The humble mula Mustafa
begs you, that there is no other desire but to be quiet, and to
leave even more quietly, when the hour comes.