My father s home

перевод стихотворения Мустая Карима из цикла "Отчий дом"
I used to open many a time
Massive bronze palace doors.
I used to stamp with the shoes of mine
Thick carpets on the parquetry floors,
And chandeliers shed their brilliant light
Like magic circles from the ceiling,
And yet, the humble house on the river side
Arose my deepest, warmest feeling!
And though the shimmering lights inside
Are now so scant and awfully few
There is no place so dear and bright!
I tell you: Yes, it’s true!
Bird cherries foam it
With a wave of fragrant haze.
The window panes of it
Perceive the world amazed!
My father’s hands so strong, work-worn,
Had made our hut.
Our grief and joy abide in it at every turn
Like autumn water in the rut.
Time cannot take away
The hearty warmth
Of every night and day.
The flowers’ tender ear-rings
Have greeted gladly many springs.
Perhaps, they have been bowing
To violet the garden with smell endowing.
A busy bee is flying midst
The flowers on the flower bed
To give a hearty greeting of the mead
To my dear homestead.
And the embroidered towels on the walls
Fly like a flock of recollections –
Each stitch will never fade, it never palls
‘cause all the stitches are my Mummy eyes’ reflections.
The cuckoo clock at home
Ticks honestly the moments-woven chain
As if it could entirely alone
Rule every second’s grain!
And everything is peacefully alive
But there’s my father’s battle knife
In ancient sheath, it’s calm and bright
The soldier of the greatest fight.
It witnesses without a single word
Victorious salutes over shattered evil horde!