MY NATIVE TONGUE
Such follies trouble us in sleep—
Last night I dreamt I died:
In a deep ravine I lie unseen,
A bullet in my side.
A stream is thundering nearby.
In vain I wait for help.
Upon the dusty earth I lie,
Soon to be dust myself,
For no one knows that here I die,
And nothing conies in view
But eagles wheeling in the sky,
A shy young deer or two.
To mourn my most untimely death
And weep in solemn chorus
Come neither mother, wife, nor friend,
None of the village mourners.
Yet just as I prepare to die
Unnoticed and unsung,
I hear two men go passing by
Who speak my native tongue.
In a deep ravine I lie unseen,
I pine, but they with glee
Relate the wiles of one Hasan,
The intrigues of Ali.
And, as I hear the Avar speech,
My strength comes flowing back—
This is a cure no scholars teach,
A balm the doctors lack.
May other tongues cure other men
In their particular way,
But if tomorrow Avar die,
I’d rather die today!
No matter if it’s hardly used
For high affairs of state,
It is the language that I choose—
To me Avar is great!
Shall my successors only read
Translations of Makhmud?
Am I the last Avar to write
And still be understood?
I love this life, the whole wide world
I view with loving gaze.
But best I love the Soviet land
Which I—in Avar—praise.
I’d die for this free land of toil
That ranges East and West.
But let it be on Avar soil
That in my grave I rest,
And let it be in Avar words
That Avars meeting there
Speak of Rasul, their kinsman, poet.
A poet’s son and heir!