LITMIR.BIZ

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      But now my white sun

      Is dimmed, my heart is broken,

      You are staying but I am leaving you…

      Oh, my poor belly…

      Oh, my loins…

      My two lower ribs hurt so badly…

      Nevertheless, we are destined

      To live in the Middle World,

      To be happy,

      Not to die and vanish,

      That is why

      I am asking you to leave quickly,

      And go straight to the east.

      There will be three milky-white barrows,

      On top of them

      You will see a white, flexible birch tree

      With two branches,

      With green quivering leaves…

      Pull it out by breaking its roots and branches,

      Bring it here, make a crossbeam,

      Place it in front of me…

      I had a dream in which I cast lots…

      Make a cradle at once!

      We will be a happy people.

      Make a hollow in the cradle at once!

       Ai-aibyn! Yi-yibyn!

      Abytaibyn-tatappyn!’

      Saying so, she sat panting and weeping…

      The poor woman cried out:

      ‘Have you heard me or not?’

      The man turning to her said:

      ‘Have you spoken or not?’

      It did not take much time,

      Was he away for a long time?

      Did he spend much time away?

      Soon returning,

      He started to work furiously.

      Straining and sweating,

      Making great efforts,

      He stuck the crossbeam

      Higher than his knees,

      He made a cradle,

      Puffing, and panting

      And he toiled at making its grooves…

      He dashed out of the door,

      Grasped an armful of hay,

      Spread it here and there under his wife…

      Thinking it would be the right thing to do

      For the propagation of three Sakha,

      Throwing open her white and black blanket.

      He sat down the foremother of Sakha,

      Sabyia Baai Khotun,

      He took eight bowls

      Decorated with carvings,

      Used for greetings,

      He filled them with yellow butter,

      Placed them at the head of the bed

      Blessing their long, happy future…

      He brought a long lynx coat,

      Spread it on the floor

      To greet Nelben Aiyyhyt, Nelegeldjin Ekhsit,

      To engage the former,

      To make the steps of the latter easy,

      To look at them warmly;

      Sparkling and clinking

      As if they were alive,

      Neck adornments were brought.

      He laid them out to glitter in the sun,

      Front and back adornments interlaced,

      With pendants and plates

      Twinkling brightly!

      He brought 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.

      He placed all these things in front of her.

      After that Sabyia Baai Khotun,

      Destined to be the foremother of Sakha,

      Sat stroking her silvery cheeks

      With her two plump hands,

      With her long fingers looking like

      Ten she-ermines with their heads down.

      Letting her long, eight-bylas-long braid down,

      Her pearly teeth shining,

      She began to sing softly…

      THE SONG OF SABYIA BAAI KHOTUN

      ‘Jeh-buo! Jeh-buo!

      Spirit of the dwelling, Jedeh Bakhsila,

      Living on the main post of my house!

      You have removed

      Your thick non-skid shield...

      Spirit of my eight-rimmed,

      Eight-brimmed, restless,

      Full of trouble Primordial Mother Earth

      Aan-Alakhchyn, the White Manghalyn

      With a copper cane,

      Ready to protect everybody,

      My dear honourable grandmother!

      You have loosened your grip for me…

      If I am destined to be a Sakha,

      Spread out wide my smooth path,

      My fast horse with mane and tail!

      The dazzling white spring sun glitters

      Like the blade of a big batas,

      The radial white winter sun glitters

      Like the edge of a thin batas,

      A calm summer is coming,

      Tender green shoots are appearing,

      Sedge, higher than

      A three-year-old bull calf,

      Does not fade away,

      Thin sedge as high as

      A four-year-old shank mare

      Does not turn yellow,

      A lake of kumis higher than

      A brown foal fed till autumn

      Rises boisterously in this land

      Of joy and happiness.

      My Nelegeldjin Ekhsit,

      My Nelbeng Aiyyhyt

      Has become an Ejen Ekhsit –

      A goddess for young women,

      Has become an Akhtar Aiyyhyt –

      A goddess for elderly women!

      It is high time for me,

      For the Urankhai Sakha

      To part

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