Abai Kunanbaev

Spring

Spring came and melted the snow and ice.
The earth was covered in soft velvet.
Freed from winter's hibernation and heartache
all that lives dings with its heart to warmth and light.

The birds fly in and spring entered the blossoming garden,
and the youths made a racket like fledglings.
The old men rose again as from the grave
and are honestly happy to meet again their friends.

The families hurry to their kinsmen in the nearby aul:
embraces, exclamations—a happy commotion.
Young laughter is carried on the air in triumph.
The people have shaken off the winter worries.

Sharp cries come from the she-camels and the lambs
bleat in the yard.
Butterflies and birds flutter in the ravines.
Powerful streams burble, wind and flow
under the fixed gaze of trees and flowers.

Swans and geese glide decorously past the banks.
The children rush about searching for birds' nests.
You gallop on your winged horse.
The hawk soars up, its plumage flashing,
you strap the prey to your saddle—
and the girls playfully block your way.

The young girls' costumes are wonderful.
The snowdrops flower and delight the soul.
The sparrows in the sky and the nightingales in the
ravines sing their songs
The cuckoo and thrush echo them from the mountains.

The trading folk come with new goods.
The peasants get down to reaping.
Everyone is rewarded for their long work and sweat.
The flocks multiply with the new young.

What a wonderful world the Creator has given us!
He magnanimously and generously gave us his light.
When mother-earth fed us from her breast,
our Father in heaven thoughtfully inclined over us.

Your soul trusts in the mercy of Allah,
who has breathed life with spring into the earth.
The cattle have grown fat in the steppe, abundance descends,
and man's spirits soar, he comes to from the time of losses.
Everything, except for the black rocks, is warm and pulses with life.
Everyone is so generous that the skinflints are angry.
You follow the rebirth of the world with rapture—
the soul finds its stronghold in the Creator.

Old women and men go out in the sun, the children are uproarious.
The herds bask in the sun, glossy and well-fed.
The trill and chirruping of songbirds flows.
The calls of the geese and swans come from the river.

The sunset has faded. The moon and stars triumph.
How could the beams of the stars not pierce the darkness.
But in anticipation of the return of the sun
they pale and lose their sparkle.
The sun now, like a bridegroom back from its travels,
arranges its bond with the bride-earth.
The stars and moon turn pale as they see
how light-bearing and immortal is this bond.

The warm wind brings the news to the moon and stars
that the wedding is nigh—the feast is open to all,
that the earth has thrown off its snow-white covering
and beams with a happy smile.

The earth has waited all winter for its beloved sun,
and united with it and slaked its passion:
This is the result of that everlasting passion:
all is in blossom, radiant as the fire-bird.
No one dares to stare straight at the sun,
but they love it and are warmed by its soulful heat.
And I myself saw the sun going into
its gold and purple tent in the evening.