Winter, I pine in the village, hopelessly ill,
In summer, peasants labored so hard, now all is still.
I feel lazy too, taking a break with other men,
Hoping come spring to be healthy again.
My poems mirror gloomy winter thoughts,
At times I think of bread, potatoes cooked in pots.
Potato, come to me, you’re my favorite for sure.
The wealthy love your taste as do the poor.
You traveled from America to suffer with us here,
Sad is our people’s fate, its ignorance austere.
1912
В оригинале на татарском: Авылда авырып яту
В переводе на русский язык: Я больной лежу в деревне (Перевод В.Думаевой-Валиевой)