You have plagued me for years, you have wounded and stung me, my beard!
May Allah visit His wrath upon you, and promptly, my beard!
Such disaster no hurricane brings, nor a sand-storm, my beard!
Ah, if only a foe's yatagan smote and trimmed you, my beard!
By a spiteful shaitan and a mad were you fashioned, my beard!

As a rosy-cheeked youth I was beardless but gay and content,
For I kissed many lips, and my days were agreeably spent,
And not once did the fairest of maids my attentions resent.
But 'tis all in the past, and today they deride and torment
Him who, thinking to please them, did thoughtlessly sprout you, my beard!

Not for naught so despondent am I, not for naught do I brood:
You embarrass and shame me, disgrace me and leave me subdued:
You are matted, ill-smelling and greasy with remnants of food.
And, disgusted, the damsels away from you turn, in no mood
To accept my advances and treat me with kindness, o beard!

Were each hair that you boast strung with diamonds and pearls, even so
I would wish to be rid of you, beard, for to you do I owe
The disdain that the fair ones for me unmistakably show.
Less than grass are you worth, yet like grass you continue to grow.
If I had but my way, for a mat I would use you, my beard!

Sad and grieved is Vagif, for the thought fills his heart with dismay
That his dark, shining beard will too soon turn a lusterless grey,
That a mangy white dog he will come to resemble one day,
That alone at a feast where the young wax highthearted and gay
He will, shivering, sit in a corner, unwanted, my beard!

Translated by Irina Zheleznova

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