I miss my native land that I see in my dreams.
I am sure I will never see her again.
I grew up in the mountains like a wild animal.
It's not a matter of being on my sick bed.
Who guarantees me that I will not die?
Oh, life, how beautiful you are.
How the deer wander in the meadows.
I sit on the high hills,
the soft breath of morning kisses me.
The morning breeze plays at my collar
I greet the first of the sun.
Why don't I have a century left?
Why does that mountain life trouble me?
Why did I leave the small stream?
I am a butterfly blown by the wind.
I was free, I was spoiled
I broke the stones myself.
What sighing and sadness,
what use is this restlessness?
Better to fade away in a hospital,
to stand up and take a bullet at the front.
My god how I miss my native land.
Neither dead nor alive
my soul stumbles toward the fall.
God, what did I do, what did I do?
Translated by Wallace Kaufman and Zhanna Alikhanova
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