Vera Zvyagintsev

My ancient people, my people wise,
With tree of a nut you could be compared:
Midst mountains’ heights, in the world’s paradise,
You grew under dry winds in farthest end.
So small is the earth under your stem, grand,
And so widely your arms are spread, 
That they were down for the centuries failed – 
The fruits, with your blood grown and bred, –
On hard, dusty paths of the alien land.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, July, 2001