In noonday heat, in Daghestanian vale,
I lay unmoving, lead’s soft fleshy nest;
A wound of smoke, a deep and savage gale,
As drop by drop sweet life oozed from my breast.
I lay alone upon the valley sand,
Around me ledges of each cliff grew tight;
And sun–sent yellow peaks burnt in their brand,
And burnt in me, asleep in death’s black night.
But, shining, I then dreamt of farthest fires:
An evening feast in distant homeland mine;
Twixt maidens young with garlands thick as pyres
Came merry talk about my fate’s fierce line.
But one did not enjoy warm banter's crowd,
Alone she sat, in deepest thought apart;
And saddest dream her soul, unold, did shroud,
God knows what weight still burdened this young heart.
And Daghestan’s lost vale became her dream:
A body known to her lay there in smoke;
A breast bled black, a hole of leaden steam,
Life pouring dry in coldest mortal choke.