«The Bard is killed! The honor's striver / Fell, slandered by a gossip's dread, / With lead in breast and vengeful fire, / Drooped with his ever-proud head. / The Poet's soul did not bear / The shameful hurts of low breed, / He fought against the worldly "faire," / Alone as always, ......»
«A poet's dead — entrapped by honour, / Felled by slanderous rumours spread — / A bullet in the breast, with vengeful anger, / He bowed at last his noble head. / His soul could not endure the legions / Of trifling insults and their shame, / He stood against the world's opinions, / A...»
«A searing sun, a Daghestani valley... / I lie at noon, a bullet in my breast; / My steaming wound is deep, no strength to rally / And drops of blood keep oozing from my chest. I lie alone, the valley's sandy edges / Are crowded in by looming cliffs so steep, / The sun burns down upon...»
«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 ...»