LITMIR.BIZ

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      Plenty of turtle-doves

      That never cease cooing,

      In the land of milk and cream,

      Which gets richer and richer,

      Nine seleh-ropes are tied,⁸⁰

      Yellow chechir – a row of birch trees

      Is lined up

      As vast as eight dense forests.

      In a tuhulgeh,⁸¹ a place for a feast,

      As deep and wide as a lake,

      There are curdy bogs

      Up to the head of a fattened horse,

      There is milky salt-marsh

      Up to the knees of a racehorse.

      Sabyia Baai Khotun

      And Sakha Saaryn Toyon

      Were settled here,

      In the copper nest of Mother Earth,

      Eight-brimmed, eight-rimmed,

      Restless and worried,

      Where mud and snow do not remain,

      In its golden womb the bright sun rests,

      On its light navel and high range,

      On its swollen fat and thrown-back neck,

      On the very centre of the earth,

      On the very top of the sky

      A marvellous,

      Magnificent dwelling was built.

      It had thirty tie-beams,

      Nine narrow windows

      To let in the rays of the sun,

      It occupied a place measuring nine bylas.⁸²

      This incomparable dwelling was sparkling,

      Inviting from a great distance…

      Ordered to create

      Three kins of Sakha

      Destined to give birth

      To four kins of Sakha,

      Driven by desire,

      Overwhelmed by passion

      Young sweethearts

      Looked into each other’s eyes,

      Took a fancy to each other.

      Their blood began to boil,

      They opened the door

      To their large dwelling

      Hand in hand –

      Who can resist such intense desire?

      A passion to love threw them into bed,

      Thinking it would be a tradition

      Of the three kins of Sakha,

      They pulled over themselves

      The blanket made with three sable skins,

      They shook up pillows made of lynx skins,

      Tore off their clothes with longing fingers;

      The adornment of the breast was unfastened,

      The adornment of the hips was unbuttoned,

      The strings of her pants were torn off…

      The call of Aiyyhyt was overwhelming,

      The impatient lovers began to embrace,

      The passion of Ekhsit was really very strong;

      They kissed ardently, entwined playfully,

      They caressed each other eagerly

      Until they became tired…

      Then, the sweet woman’s body

      Trembled intensely

      Because of the love and passion

      Below her belly,

      In that place

      Where a man becomes a man

      As big as a ladle,

      The souls of a boy and a girl

      Began to pulsate in her womb…

      Sabyia Baai Khotun,

      The foremother of Sakha

      Proudly celebrated her pregnancy:

      In a day

      She was in her first month;

      In two days

      She was in her second month;

      In three days

      She was in her third month;

      In four days

      She was in her fourth month;

      In her fifth month

      She began to waddle;

      In her sixth month

      She walked slowly in a haphazad way

      In her seventh month

      Her face lost its colour;

      In her eighth month

      She felt pain in her body;

      In her ninth month

      She walked with a crook;

      In her tenth month

      The time came to give birth.

       …a rich beaver hat, the silver trimming of which Shone in the white sun; Red decoration on top of it gleamed as a pretty pattern. She used to wear it proudly when she was a girl…

      The poor woman started to shout out

      Because of the intolerable,

      Acute pain in her loins.

      Pangs of childbirth

      Made her call upon Aiyyhyt,

      Interminable pain

      Made her appeal to Ejen Ekhsit,

      She stared at her husband

      With his thick black moustache…

      Unable to endure the pain

      She shed a few tears,

      Her white sun became dim,

      She took a deep breath,

      Thinking the day of her death

      Had come.

      She began to reflect on her life,

      Thinking the day of her passing

      Had come.

      She made her last will…

      THE SONG OF SABYIA BAAI KHOTUN

      ‘Ai-aibyn! Yi-yibyn!

      Abytaibyn-tatappyn!

      What a terrible pain lower down in my belly…

      What acute pain in my loins there is…

      My toyon, my friend

      With a black moustache!

      I was glad to have my home,

      My own hearth,

      I was glad to give birth to a child,

      I was glad to breed cattle

      In my primordial land

      Full

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