I look at that Golden-Mountain
And I am reminded to know
That my Roots lie within this Land,
But who's Tongue I don't understand,
A couple of words, here and there,
Just by trying hard to compare
With the tongue I do speak right now,
Yet who's unknown to these People.

From riding Horses and Hunting
In the wide Meadows of Turan,
To Protecting and Reciting
Words of the Majestic Qur'an,
I've, Altai, become a stranger
To your Mountains, to your Rivers,
To your Music, to your Verses
And more that lies within your Hills.

Rosewater is made
for those who
still miss the rose
in the winter,
and want to
keep her fragrance near
without touching her thorns.

Somewhere, some place a century ago,
Long before my own generation's birth
There walked a girl who still many do know
In the meadows and cities on this earth.
Like us she felt the same breath of the dawn,
Has seen the same sun, moon and gleaming star,
And many things she had pondered upon,
Which makes our similarities not far.
And when I'm pondering upon our past,
Melancholy and Happy are merging,
And I do realize that things have gone fast,
Who offer a time for contemplating.
  Despite the past is gone, I still adore
  The small beauties that had took place before.

Don't be afraid when you see me,
I'm no stranger nor enemy.
I may speak foreign tales and rhymes,
But too speak your soul's melody.

Autumn: falling of rains,
The cries of flocks of cranes
And many more delights,
Who're found in days and nights.

Empty are the orchards,
With the absence of birds,
Accompanied by cold
And the fruits who were sold.

For months I have waited,
In times I have hated,
Like the haze of summer
Who's flare made me number.

And now it's back again,
With silver drops of rain,
And yellow leaves who whirl
In a shape of a curl.

It's a rose-garden of cries and pain here,
Yet for roses to bloom you need rain here.

The songs of sadness and madness are too weak,
Compared to this feeling they're too sane here.

Beauty lies in eyes of the beholder,
So this may be gold or an ink-stain here.

Thank God for poetry! There are no rules.
Write this in prose, and you'll be insane here!

O Mâhî this sad-talk is not the way;
Count blessings, there's no time to complain here!

It feels empty and cold without fire,
Who is fueled by the looks and desire.

Each hanging tree and every golden-leave,
Are the views who make my soul inspire.

My Tribe of Relish has no renegades,
Once blessed and cursed: no one can retire.

The Pearl of Wisdom lies in my sad hand,
Yet that's the gem I seek to acquire.

That which is silent like a sleeper, yet
Loud like dreams, Ruyâ'î does admire.