Ilman Yusupov


To Motherland - Poem by Ilman Yusupov

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.

He who’s performed the ablution with water from your waterfall
Can hear the voice of your light calm though his ears are shut.
I will take your wind in my arms, like a cat rolled up in a ball,
And I need your hailstorm to grind it in the mill of my heart.

In spring I will throw the log of your sun into the stove of my breast,
In summer, let your doctor, the rain, make an injection into my brain.
In fall, on a thread of cranes I will string the beads of soul in my chest.
In winter I‘ll make a song lace from the grey-haired yarn of your haze.

You have always shared your sinless assets with me, and hence
You know I don’t squander the gifts you send from above,
With the marble of your crescent I am building a blest happy fence,
And with gravel of your stars I am paving the road to my love.

When, death, like a wolf, creeps up to me, and puts out my brain
Remember always, I, too, will want to have this for my own:
The twines of your grass to bind the black neck of my grave,
The white hands of your fog to wash the inscription on tombstone.


Comments about To Motherland by Ilman Yusupov

There is no comment submitted by members..



Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?



Poem Submitted: Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Poem Edited: Sunday, January 1, 2012


[Report Error]