Translated from “Çàáûòàÿ äåðåâíÿ” by Nikolai Vasilievich Krasnoshyokov, a
renowned Salavat poet
My heart denies the saddest lore -
So orphaned, empty is my home,
Abandoned midst the pine galore –
My village – dark and lone.
Time’s sneaked away from me,
And who knows why or where…
Weeds celebrate its hasty flee,
Homesteads are void and bare.
Cross boarded are the window holes,
The paths are grow with goose foot,
All country people – poor souls-
Are in the city, they've lost their root,
And the grass has no meaning,
As the meadow lacks seasonal scything,
And the river’s senseless streaming
Shows the desolation sizing.
The sad willow is nearly alive,
It’s withering like a widow in black,
She’s the only here to survive –
A reminder of those who are not to be back.
Should there be a single life sound –
A man’s merry voice or a moo…
There’s a question in silence around,
And nothing to give me the clue!