Oh, my luckless Kazakh, my unfortunate kin,
An unkempt moustache hides your mouth and chin.
Blood on your right cheek, fat on your left —
Your looks are not bad and your numbers are vast,
Yet why do you change your favours so fast?
You will never listen to sound advice,
Your tongue in its rashness is unsurpassed.
Unable to manage your property,
Day and night, care and worry are all you see,
Now naughty, now wearing a look of offence,
Constant in nought but inconstancy.
All sorts of scurvy, and petty scum
Have crippled your soul for years to come.
No hope of improvement have you until
Master of your own fate you become.
Kinsmen for trifles each other hate.
God bereft them of reason — such is their fate.
No honour, no harmony, only dissent;
No wonder cattle is scarcer of late.
Over money and power hostilities rage.
You look on while your lords in wrangles engage.
If you fail to cast off those honourless knaves
Fear and shame will your lot be through age after age.
How can your heart be at ease, I ask,
If you can’t even face the easiest task?
If you cannot master firmness and pluck,
My folk, you will always be out of luck.
Yet if anyone tells you the right thing to do
You abuse and revile him, so stupid are you.
Abay Kunanbayev [Ibrahim (Abai) Qunanbaiūly] (1845 - 1904) Kazakhstan
Translated by Dorian Rottenberg
Source: Abai Institute
Thank you for this
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