I wrote a myriad verses, some are good, I’m told.
Yet, my critics always find plenty in them to scold.
For each of us these folks will find a scathing word.
I have a friend: his words are sharper than a sword.
He sees a windmill and “No water!” he will scream,
While looking a watermill he claims it has no steam.
He grabs a horse by the tail: “Oh, what nice long hair,
But why won’t it grow on its head instead. I think it is unfair.”
“The plowman ruins the earth,” he will insist.
“You, writers, from critiquing them should not desist.”
What could be wrong with a sheep’s belly, yet he is on his toes:
“For Russian vets,” he will lament, “these Tatars are real foes.”
1912
В оригинале на татарском: Мөнтәкыйд