Wherever our life paths may wind,
Here we assemble in this row.
Yet many names I do- not find
Of men who perished long ago.
Both old and young did not come back
But far from home did meet their end.
Where were you laid to rest, Iskhak,
And Hadji-Magoma, my friend?
And you, my dear dead brothers, speak!
Where can I find your burial mound?
Your soldier graves I cannot seek
In Tsada’s cemetery ground.
On fields of battle faraway
Courageously you fought and died…
How far, Tsada, your children stray
Whose graves are scattered far and wide!
In lands where blizzards howl and reel,
Where scorching sun the earth engraves,
Women, who are not Avars, kneel
To lay fresh flowers on their graves.
THE DAGGER
I take from the wall this old dagger of mine,
A weapon I clumsily handle…
My belt I have never with you, dagger, lined
And ridden full tilt into battle.
I may have disturbed you by taking a rag
And wiping the dust from your surface.
But blood never tainted you, neither of man
Nor of animal, feathered or furry.
You hang like a toy there, and yet I succumb
To small voices, prompting me ever
To test your keen edge on the skin of my thumb
And see if a hair you can sever.
Life gave me a different weapon—for peace,
And different duties I set it.
Why then should I draw this blade out from its sheath
And, stroking the edge lightly, whet it?
Perhaps as a peaceable poet I should
Get rid of this blade at the fountain?
My dagger would say in reply, if it could:
«Oh no, you’re a man of the mountain!»
IT’S TIME FOR ME TO GO
It’s time for me to go, my darling.
I shall pack no things.
I leave the song of joy the starling
In the morning sings.
I leave the moonlit night, the breeze,
The flowers in the grass,
The murmuring of distant seas,
The torrent’s mighty bass,
The gorges wind and rain have carved
In rugged mountain peaks,
As dear as my own mother’s scarred
And weather-beaten cheeks.