Noon heat, a gorge in Daghestan,
I lay still, a bullet in my chest:
The deep wound was still red-hot,
blood seeped, drop by drop.

I lay lonely on the gorge’s sand,
the cliff-ledges towered around,
the sun burned their yellow heights,
and I — I slept like the dead.

And I dreamed of a midnight ball,
in my homeland, gleaming light,
young girls wreathed in flowers
talking about me, with delight.

But one sat there, deep in thought,
not part of the joyful theme,
and her young soul, God knows,
was plunged in the saddest dream.

Her dream, a gorge in Daghestan…
in that gorge a friend lay dead,
a black wound in his chest:
of dark blood a cooling stream…