Ilman Yusupov Poems

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Lonely evening, old mom, tearful eyes, graveyard, tombstone -
There they are the gloomiest words of Chechen mother tongue.
Twilight darkness falls dragging worry and anguish along
...

The wasp always flies around choosing only the ripest pear,
The grey-haired dandelion opens its arms to the piercing blast.
Yesterday's state of reality hasn’t yet gone very far from there,
And tomorrow’s troubles already jostle the present day’s fuss.
...

The breath of the war is touching the smoking skyline,
Bloody rain is falling on the burning forest expanse.
Mortal foes turn to ashes the homes of the country of mine,
Mothers, hunched up with grief, weave shrouds for their sons.
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Chechen Land, every trace that I leave on your soil is fair,
I should like to turn them into food to feed all your roads;
Year in and year out, my body is striving to be light as air,
So it might not, willy-nilly, cause pain with its loads.
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Nokhchicho! You will hear my whisper, I know.
When I breathe my last on the final verge, and
Merging with the steam of silence, I’ll go
Rising over the peasant’s arable land.
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