About first place there rose an argument between
The green Mashuka and snowy Kazbek.
Kazbek tells her: I am the most glorious of mountains,
My head towers over all others!
On me lies the untouched imprint of creation.
I outlived not years, but millennia
Like a northern tsar I stand alone
In a crown of glimmering ices.
Snowy mountians, the two-headed Elbrus,
Reach my waist while I bravely look skywards.
When dawn luxuriously glows in the East
I am enveloped in a purple glimmer, like in the sea.
All still sleeps in darkness; but the first ray of light
Kisses and caresses me with love.
The midday sun, rolling above me,
Refreshes me with her scorching sultriness.
To mortals my snows are inaccessible
Only the saiga antilope fearlessly roams on them
And rarely an eagle soaring up to the sky
Tired will land, admiring the vale
.
At my feet, noisily as a wild fallow deer,
With angry foam flows the river Kuban! . .
And what about you? You stand as an insignificant hill.
Born yesterday merely from subterrestrial fire;
Almost unnoticed is Beshtau in the rocks,
Dressed in flagstone, overgrown with brush.
A youngster, still in baby diapers,
WhatÕs there to be so proud of and seethe about!
Mashuka.
Kazbek, youÕre majestic! But whatÕs so great about height?
You stand therre in the moonlight like corpse in a shroud;
A stranger from the grave, you look at the world
Alone from the heavens, both sad and orphaned.
A ray of sun plays on the surface of your ices,
The breath of spring is inaccessible to you,
Nor can you have miraculous dreams in a luxurious meadow.
From time immemorial youÕve buried your breast in snows,
And having lost your feelings, you donÕt dare take a breath! . .
But I, just look at me. Live springs flow from my bosom,
Like hot flames
And a mortal, drawn to their healing power,
Drinks hot streams on my bosom.
My ledges are not covered in snow:
There are clusters of foliage, a haven for love,
At midday I give shade, a carpet of sod
Greets the eye at my very peak.
Where there used to be only bare crags around
Have a look, a cross of salvation is already raised.
On an arial harp along the slopes of the mountain
At midnight, at dawn, and in the midday heat,
A young marvel of the East plays about another world
With invisible arial fingers;
Marvellous sounds disperse into the distance
Carrying grief far away from the heart!
1839