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Gabdulla TUKAY "The SHURALEH", version in English language by Ravil Bukharaev
The Shuraleh
A mythical horned demon, which inhabits the forests of Tatarstan
Past Kazan into the country
There's a village called Kurlai.
In that village even hens cluck.
God alone could tell you why.

Even though I was not born there,
For a while it was my home.
There in spring I tilled and harrowed,
In the autumn reaped the loam.

I recall in all directions
Lay the backwood's broad delight.
Grasslands there of glossy velvet
Dazzled everybody's sight.
And is the village large? no!
It's just a hamlet in a ring.
All its daily drinking water
Comes from one, lone tiny spring.

Neither cold nor hot, its water
Mild and soft will ever please;
At times it rains, at times it snows,
And sometimes comes a gentle breeze

Strawberries red and raspberries redder
Thrive in plenty in the woods.
In a trice you'll fill your bucket
Brim-full with these earthy goods.
Marvellously lined in rows
Stand pines and fir-trees, warriors proud;
Amidst their roots I used to lie
While gazing at a passing cloud.

Under birches, under limes grow
Sorrel, mushrooms in a glade;
Lovely flowers bloom and flourish
In the dappled light and shade.

Red and scarlet, blue and yellow
Blossoming in sunlit bowers;
All the world is fragrant from
The heady perfume of those flowers.

Butterflies which love the blooms
Return to find out now and then
How they fare; then flit and flutter,
Off once more and back again.

All at once the birds of Allah
Fill the woods with their sweet song.
Ah, those tunes! They tear my heart-strings;
Up into the sky they throng.

Bird-song outstrips dancing parties,
Orchestras and sidewalk clubs;
Circuses, theatres, concerts -
All replaced by trees and shrubs.

Like the ocean, vast and boundless
Stretch the woodlands in their breadth;
Like the hordes of Chingiz Khan
No limit to their awesome depth.

In an instant old men's stories
Are forgotten; names, domains -
All those glories of the past!
At present nothing much remains

Then the curtain slowly rises
And our present lot we see.
Alas! Alas! What happened to us?
Slaves of God we too must be.
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