The glen of Daghestan, at noon, was hot and gleaming;
I lay on sand with lead sent to my heart,
My deadly wound was deep and easily steaming;
And, drop by drop, was oozing out blood.
I lay on sand of this small glen, alone;
High cliffs surrounded my motionless head.
The sun was scorching their yellow stone
And scorching me; but I was sleeping, dead.
And I daydreamed of homeland and evening:
A feast was glittering with celebrating lights;
Young women, garlanded with flowers, were sitting,
With gaily talk about me all night.
But one of them sat there, sunk in musing,
Not taking part in this light-hearted talk,
Her youthful soul, the world of real loosing,
In jungles of dreams sorrowfully walked.
She dreamed of Daghestan: the glen was hot and gleaming —
And someone, familiar, lay on the ground, dead,
The fatefull wound was black and easily steaming,
And cooling blood was spreading on the sand.