Time will pass, I will age and grow old,
Hunched, enfeebled and nearly bald.
But my soul will stay young, it will never surrender
While I nurture the flames of passion and anger.
They give me strength to lift the heavy rock.
The day is young and through the spring I walk.
A poet knows no winter and no cold.
Let my body age, but not my soul.
I refuse to sit and mumble, and lament,
Allah give me strength, I do not want to bend.
I’ll heat the whole house with my rhymes,
And I’ll be singing when my hour arrives.
Asrail, he cannot silence me.
Yes, I am leaving but you all will be.
I’ll remain a poet ’till I feel death’s blow,
And Allah summons me into the earth below.
1908
В оригинале на татарском: Шагыйрь
В переводе на русский язык: Поэт (Перевод Р.Бухараева)
Поэт (Перевод В.Думаевой-Валиевой)