A falsehood they at once detect,
No matter from whose lips,
No matter how the lie be decked,
Gilded or honey-dipped.
These white-haired veterans, who wear
Warm sheepskin all year round,
Know how to coin a phrase that is
Both pithy and profound.
Hill ancients! Men of high renown
Your reputation swell,
For you advise ambassadors
And generals, as well.
A rider, coming into view,
Has hardly made a sound,
Yet rightaway, and rightly, too,
You know whither he’s bound;
You know the purpose of his trip
And whether he intends
To woo a pretty village girl
Or just look up his friends.
When Kamalil Bashir of Chokh
Was in his tender years,
An aged neighbour prophesied
He’d be the cause of tears,
For he would steal the womenfolk
Of hillmen and be slain
By his own father’s hand at last
To end the people’s shame.
When proud Shamil was downy-lipped,
When all his guns were toys
And all he had at his command
Was a gang of barefoot boys,
There was an old man said of him:
«One day with powder he’ll
Contrive such thunder as shall make
The very mountain reel.»
A veteran who heard Makhmud
His early verse declaim,
Said he would certainly be shot
For a fair woman’s name.
So with embarrassment do I
Await what shall be said
Not by the connoisseurs, but by
The old hillmen instead.
Not from vainglory springs their pride,
For they without a doubt
Know very well exactly what
The stars converse about.
Not from vainglory springs their pride,
Their fame is merited:
I pause on paths to let them pass
And humbly bow my head.