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Russia, once you are not with the flowers,
Do the bolt into the limits of our mountains.
Nowaday the rocks are similar to the shields,
And nowaday there the bullets have the nests.
And are you sent the poet
To the Caucasus by the lieutenant
That the chechens hacked in the fight
Or the avarian shot him?
But he was to kill by no a servant of the Quran,
And your suborderer kill him...
The dream is me in the valley of the Dagestan,
I am the mureed of the fallen poet.
His wound burning in my heart,
And I cry. And still the thunder the shot do.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem