Echoes If you climb to the top of a towering hill, And sigh and hear and answering sigh, then only Will you know That at the top of a towering hill, You can never be lonely. If you descend to the bottom of a deep ravine, And sigh and hear an answering sigh, then only Will you know That at the bottom of a deep ravine, You can never be lonely. Echoes born of the heights And echoes born of the deep But lightly sleep. At the top of a towering hill, At the bottom of deep ravine, Dead rock acquires a soul... Call out, And you will hear the echoes roll. 1967 Translated by Irina Zheleznova I Am Older Than My Grandfather My granddad died when he was eighty. My dad- when he was only sixty. But I am older In my forties Than both my dad And granddad. Telephones Telegraphs Radio Newspapers . , They load the days and load the months And every hour and every minute... Condense the world, whose day is to the right. And to the left - the night - Into one tiny room, With Spring in your head, and Winter - at your feet... Continents, poles Are united by my speed. In the heat and the flame Of this audacity. My love And my very nature Have changed... The greater the speed, The shorter the distance. Yesterday borrows minutes from today And today - From tomorrow. The days are all mixed up, And so are the months, We have lost months, economizing years. In a single month I live as much As my granddad did in a single year. I am a river flowing down a mountain. Skirting the mountain peak, A stream muddy in the mountains And a clear river in the valley - A river with hundreds of different moods. I am older than my father. I am older than my grandfather. 1965 Translated by Louis Zellikoff I Love The eclipse I love It shall give birth to the sun, The sun for sure! Harsh winter I love It shall give birth to hot summer, Hot summer far sure! Hatred's climax I love It shall give birth to love, Love for sure! Tyranny's pain I love It shall give birth to justice, Justice for sure! 1979 Translated by Talat Sait Halman Latin Latin language carries in every word meaning as big as the world The nation is dead but the language lives on No one calls 'mother,' 'Earth,' and 'homeland' in that language anymore. Despite that the language lives on In the morning from one end of the world to the other Latin language still runs It may reach even to the constellations. This language, like a soldier who died after gaining victory It owns no land or nation but it still lives The foundation of the sciences The first and the last word in the universe Who calls this language dead? It is the language of doctors, the legendary and scholars By which months and the years are counted By which scholars writes the names of flowers, insects wind and the sky- in this dead language. Who calls this language dead? It is not the language of the dead but that of life. On the shores of the Atlantic, a speaker ebullient and exulted speaks in a foreign language Orator, tell me, what are we going to believe? The ears, the eyes, the actions or the words? If you cannot say in your mother tongue "l am free, l am independent." Who would believe that you are? What kind of freedom is that, which cannot say its name? If your mother tongue is prisoner in small huts While in big meetings and conferences your language does not have one single word too weak to participate Like an orphan, not knowing his parent or very poor so the big ideas of The century cannot be expressed. Look at the problem a homeland, a nation, exist without a language Be aware that you have a shining piano, like a mirror but it has no voice Tell me now which language should we call dead? The language which is prisoner in cramped poor huts which has a nation and a homeland Or the language which has come through centuries - its people dead but the language itself survives. 1967 Speed Time was, I'd sit in the fast train Baku-Moscow three days and three nights counting the versts for want of better to do. And now, three hours by plane Baku-Moscow and here I am again bored stiff... I want to fly with the speed of light, but when I do I'll seem to hang in the firmament motionless suspended on frozen wings. Why can't I fly as swift as my own thoughts? I'm not trying to be clever; I'm a son of the century, and it's just that the age is a striving a driving age. I want to fly higher and faster to get ahead of my thoughts to get ahead of myself! 1963 Translated by Alex Miller