I wonder what would happen if I wasn’t born at all?
Poison seals my fate, forsakes my wretched soul.
My life goes by in circles, year after year,
I suffer through the winter, till summer’s heat gets near.
Why should my life be endless, where is my final rest?
Instead of one large step – I make three small, at best.
While looking at the sunrise, I see a bloody stain,
The murky shroud of early dawn is witnessing my pain.
If not for Allah’s anger I’d take my own empty life.
I’m destined to die of illness, not of a gun or knife.
1911
В оригинале на татарском: Читен хәл
В переводе на русский язык: Трудная доля (Перевод В.Ганиева)