A poet has to know what songs he sings,
His nation has a soul, and he must touch its strings.
Life is hard, so his rhymes are filled with sadness,
Forget your stupid jokes and joyful madness.
Long, dark and piteous is the road,
People break their backs with life’s heavy load.
In their souls many hide their grief,
Buried so deep inside, there is no relief.
Poor creatures, with sorrow they can’t unveil,
Too bad, joy and laughter won’t in their life prevail.
Blessed are only those who treat themselves to booze,
This venom of oblivion for themselves they choose.
After getting drunk they start this world to praise,
Elevate their egos in a drunken haze.
1909
В оригинале на татарском:
Сәрләүхәсез
В переводе на русский язык:
Без названия (Перевод В.Думаевой–Валиевой)