From my mother I heard, so often I heard,
A “green-Chimgan” tale all my childhood I heard:
Children went by old cart, “arba” so called,
To a fairy place – Brich-Mulla.
And I pictured to me, and longed in my heart,
For a my own mule and my own “arba”,
And I saw Chimgan hills, arising afar,
So beautiful, blessed by Allah!
But my childhood has passed, and so my youth,
And I realized, a week-day it was,
That my life can burn down to the ground one day,
And turn not to a fairy tale;
And I have decided to say “Farewell”
To the city and pass my deserved holiday
With a woman who was not my widow yet
In a Chimgan fairy land!
Refrain:
Oh, my sweet, desired poison,
oh, my golden Brich Mulla!
Near rock a platan-tree sick for a shadow, for a shado-ow,
All the time I hear a bee, buzzing in my ear:
“Brich-Mulla, Brich-Mully, Brich-Mulle, Brich-Mully,
Brich-Mullo-oyu!”
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We bought an “arba”, having got into debt,
And harnessed a mule, with a star in forehead,
And to him gave a fortune of our holidays –
To the expert of Turkestan ways!
And suddenly I felt – my heart was in pain,
From my arba I saw, trough mist and through rain,
My green Chimgan-hills, arising ahead,
Showing way to a fairy land!
My arba’s my home from that fairy day,
And I doubled my family during my way,
Many cities I saw, Berlin and Bombay,
Paris, Moscow and Ankara!
On Alyaska my mule has slipped into pond,
My children were yelling, but I shouted my song,
And green Chimgan-hills lighted up all my road –
So beautiful, blessed by Allah!
Refrain.
2007