Sing, Tar, sing, Tar, sing!
Verses of beauty go dancing around,
Sing-, Tar, sing, Tar, sing!
Dew on my soul is each sweet ringing sound.
Sing, Tar, sing, Tar, sing!
Who can forget you who once heard you sing?
Grief of the people, the tears of their heart—
This is their music, their fiery art.

Buildings that face the kiblah heard your scales,
Everything heard you, the sky and the ground,
Fathers in fur caps and mothers in veils,
Sighed as they listened to each singing sound.
Now it was gladness, now sadness again,
Gaily but warily glided the strain.

Full of deep sorrow you sing your lay,
Making all travellers go the wrong way,
Mountains and gorges re-echo your tunes,
Waves give an answer and echo the dunes.
Sing, Tar, sing, that in reverie I'd hear
Vernal ghazals of Seid, ringing far,
Sing, Tar, sing to enliven and cheer
That town of Shirvan—the entrancing Ganja.

Those who feel ill, find no pleasure in food,
Those who have heart-ache, a sorrowful mood,
Those who don't welcome the merry Spring-tide,
Mounting no more the inviting hill-side,
Those who are racked by pain in the breast,
Luckless and loveless, whose souls find no rest,
Found consolation and comfort once more,
Relish ol life, peace of mind at your door.
Tar, your high notes and low notes are heard
Piercing tlie air like the song of a bird,
Yet by a different emotion you're stirred,
Charmed is your heart, sweet your melody rare—
See the sad maiden with long, wavy hair;
Grief in your chords, Tar, painfully throbs,
That is the reason yuur melody sobs,
Numbers of people all heard how you groaned,
Palaces heard you of Shahs and of Khans,
Hearing you wailing, in unison moaned
Times immemorial and century spans. .. .
Sometimes your strings pacify and console,
Tar, the love of my soul!. . .
Carpets with patterns so colourful, fine,
Tints from the labouring hands, showing blood,
There on the carpets, in leizure, recline
Women with lips like a flowery bud.
Cup-bearer, help me, your wine has grown cold,
Come, do not harass the girls, you're too bold!
Eloquent poets with hungering heart,
Poets inspired to work with their art,—
Bards like Vagif and Nadim, men of lore,
Fathomed of beauty the charm to the core,
Listening, they heard how you murmured and sighed,
Heard how you sang, how your chords rang and cried.

Now for us, Tar, come, tune up and sing!
Who can forget your heart's wonderful ring?
Tar, no mosque did your song ever serve,
Always you struggled for life's happy verve.
Some disregarded your wonderful song,
Had no compunction in doing you wrong.
Who were the loolish who caused you to smart?!
Brainlessly, wickedly breaking your heart,
Dashing above you—a black, cruel wind,
. Hurting your strings, causing pain of all kind.
People who loved you—to grief were assigned!
Kindly you said to the people: "Be gay,
Laugh! do not sorrow, let grief fly away!"
Still the deep funeral melody swelled,
Tears through the melodies gathered and welled.
Sorrow remained and we saw no one smile,
People were sad and they wept all the while.
All of us wept, shedding hot, bitter tears,
Torn by predicaments, tortured with fears.
Tar, sing now, times have changed it appears.
Over the radio sounds your dear voice,
Over the wide world for folks to rejoice.

Tar, sing louder and gladden my heart,
Sing to my ear your melodious part. i
Bard, take your saz, sing of freedom at last,
Turbans and robes are now things of the past.
Tar, tune up, sing; your fiery lay
Called forth, the blushes of many a fay—
Blushes of maidens so lovely and gay.
Strings of the Tar are golden and bright,
Songs of the Tar—a source of delight.
Sing, Tar, sing, let your strings evoke
Happiness in the hearts of my folk.
Tar, in hearing your beautiful strain—
Happiness, peace I am sure to attain.
You are a weapon today in my hands,
I can make use of your tunes hot as brands,
Using you, Tar, quite freely at last,
One of your songs is enough to cast—
From every soul all the ghosts of the past.
Sing, Tar, sing!

People are standing about you, a throng,
Waiting to hear the delight of your song:
Workers of factories, women and maids,
Men on the tractors, and hands of all trades!
Sing, there is no one your song- to restrain!
Bitterness, sweetness are part of your strain: ,
This is the fiery beauty in you—
Art of my native, industrious Baku,
Cotton-fields vast of Ganja—poets' town,
Silk of Sheki, its silk-worms of renown.
Sing, Tar, sing, Tar, sing!
Songs of great beauty go dancing around,
Sing, Tar, let your chords ring!
Dew on the flame of my soul is each sound, i
Sing, Tar, sing, Tar, sing!
Who can forget you who once heard you sing?!
Life of the people, the joy of their heart,
Here is their wonderful, fiery art!

Translated by Olga Moisseyenko

What my heartmeats said

My heartbeats said:
''There's luck ahead... .
Great, glorious days
That brace and daze
Are yet to come!"
There's more ahead. . .
My heartbeats said:
"Noble work, no fret,
Toil's pearly sweat—
Are yet to cornel"
My sires define:
"Past times were fine"...
These words I hate,
My heart says: "Wait!
The sun's hot rays,
Cool springs, bright days,
Are yet to come!"

Translated by Olga Moisseyenko

Love of Life

O how to part with this great world around,
That grows more beautiful as time goes by?
0 how to part with friends, forever bound
To struggle with the earth and with the sky?
Do not become the dew at break of day,
Shine like the sun, o heart, on mornings new!...
How from this world to tear myself away
That revels at the hem of skies deep blue?
Look over there—the sky seems growing light,
And friends have met beneath the morning star....
0 how to part with dawns that shimmer bright
Like nuggets of pure silver, shining far?
How rich is Nature, how mysterious too,
When you disclose her secrets, engineer!
How to discard the sense, the feeling new
Attached to stones in quarries, rising sheer?
Here hawks soar high where lofty mountains loom,
There pheasants breed, and springs like mirrors gleam. . .
The nightingales, the gardens fair, in bloom,
0 how to leave this sight, this lovely dream?
With life that is an endless, lasting fight,
With kindling flames that rage in blood and heart,
With sun and moon, with morning and with night,
And with the sky's vast cupola, how to part?
Before my eyes the iron breakers fume,
The sea is grim, the storm winds keen and tart,
Like lacy flowers sweeps the snow-white spume....
With poetry, with day-dreams how to part?
0 stars—the candles of each cherished thought,
0 clouds—dream caravans that stir my heart,
Celestial sphere—my feelings' airy port,
With these vast azure heavens, how to part?
My cherished love appears before my eyes,
I feel the flame of my poetic art,
My burning breast must ease itself with sighs:
With her sweet raven tresses how to part?
The nightingale is sorrowing near the rose,
Though autumn comes—he lingers to depart,
Life, life! this cry of longing ever grows:
With love, with burning passion how to part?
With feelings new you string" your singing lute
My youthful pen, now just about to start!
0 friends, give answer to my pain acute:
With this great seething fire-flame how to part?

Translated by Olga Moisseyenko