Жаз

Лето

When summer in the mountains gains its peak,

When gaily blooming flowers begin to fade,

When nomads from the sunshine refuge seek

Beside a rapid river, in a glade,

Then in the grassy meadows here and there

The salutatory neighing can be heard

Of varicoloured stallion and mare.

Quiet, shoulder-deep in water stands the herd;

The grown-up horses wave their silky tails,

Lazily shooing off some irksome pest,

While frisky colts go frolicking about

Upsetting elder horses, at their rest.

The geese fly honking through the cloudless skies,

The ducks skim noiselessly across the river,

The girls set up the felt-tents, slim and spry,

As coy and full of merriment as ever.

Returning from his flocks, pleased with his ride,

Again in the aul appears the bai.

His horse goes on with an unhurried stride,

He sits and smiles upon it, hat awry.

Surrounding the saba* in a close ring,

Sipping their heady beverage—kumyss,

Old men sit by a yurta**, gossiping

And chuckling at quips rarely amiss.

Incited by the servants comes a lad

To beg the cook, his mother, for some meat.

Beneath an awning, gay and richly clad

                                               The bais on gorgeous carpets take their seats.

                                              And sip their tea, engaged in leisured talk.

                                              One speaks, while others listen and admire

                                              His eloquence and wit. Towards them walks

                                              A bent old man bereft of strength and fire.

                                              He shouts at shepherds not to raise the dust

                                              Aiming to win the favour of the bais.

                                                    And yet in vain he raises such a fuss—

                                             They sit and never even turn their eyes.

                                             There, tucking up the hems of their chapans***

                                               Leisurely swaying in their saddles as they trot

 V                                          From nightly grazing come the young chabans****

                                             Whipping their lusty steeds god knows for what.

                                             A long way off from the aul’s last tents

                                             With movement and excitement getting warm,

                                             On horseback, too, the bai’s son and his friends

                                             Enjoy a falcon hunt. The bird’s in splendid form

                                             At one quick spurt such falcons catch and bring

                                             Crashing to earth the great, unwieldy geese.

                                             Meanwhile that bent old man, unlucky thing,

                                             The toady that had nigh gone hoarse to please

                                             The haughty bais, unnoticed, watches on,

                                             And sighs for sorrow that his time is gone.

Translated by Dorian Rottenberg

*Saba—leather bag with wine or other drink.—Ed.

** Yurta—felt tent with cylindric walls and hemis­pherical roof.—Ed.

***Chapan –men’s top-coat, gown.-Ed

****Chaban- herdsman.-Ed