I feel a long and unresolved desire

For that serene and solemn land of ghosts,

It quivers now, like an Aeolian lyre,

My stuttering verse, with its uncertain notes,

A shudder takes me: tear on tear, entire,

The firm heart feels weakened and remote:

What I possess seems far away from me,

And what is gone becomes reality.

Яна чорлар мени илоҳий бир ун,

Яна хаёлларга чулғанди бошим.

Сабо арфасидек ҳазин ва сермунг.

Қуйилар сатрлар, қани бардошим!

Музлаган жисмимни эритар букун

Кўзимдан қуйилган қайноқ бу ёшим.

Бу олам чекинур, ўтмиш-чи, аён —

Кўзларим олдида бўлар намоён.

He seems to me, saving Your Grace,
Like a long-legged grasshopper: through space
He's always flying: he flies and then he springs,
And in the grass the same old song he sings.

Кечир, гарчи унга бердинг башар от, 
Аммо яшаётир мисли ҳашарот. 
Худди чигирткадек хас-чўплар аро 
Гоҳ учар, гоҳ сакрар, гоҳ тузар наво. 

The next day Husayn was crowned Emir, but he did not hold power for long; a mysterious illness forced him off the throne in less than three months. The doctors failed to conjure one of their miracles, and Emir Husayn left this world of sorrows. When Nasrullo heard what had happened, his thoughts turned to his master chef, who he had only recently sent to serve his brother Husayn as a peace-offering: ‘Seems the bastard took his arsenic with him’. Then he gathered his army and set off for Bukhara once again.

Эртасига Ҳусайн-тўрани Амир қилиб тахтга кўтаришди, бироқ тахтни эгаллаганидан сал ўтмай, Амир Ҳусайн бир номаълум касалга чалиниб, масиҳонафас табибларнинг муолажа уринишлари зое кетиб, салтанати уч ойга етар-етмас дунё омонатини қўлдан бой берди. Насруллоҳхон баковулини ҳадъя тариқасида саройга юборган эди, “Маргимушини ҳам ўзи билан олиб кетибди-йўв бу аблаҳ!” - деб ўйлади ўзича у, яна черигини Бухоро томон тортар экан...

His father was right when he said that a man can be in thrall to devils, especially if he is a writer. You have only to set to work to be gripped by your plans and inventions, and everything else seems vanity, triviality, a distraction. Over the last month Abdulla had covered reams of paper, having told himself: If I can sit down on my own this winter, I will finish writing the novel. And now all those hopes had been dashed. The Tatar NKVD man had found the manuscript, stuffed it in the only suitcase in the house, and taken it
away with him. And he was hardly going to read it, was he? Could he even decipher the old Arabic script of Uzbek? Or would he hire some black-eyed locals to read it for him?

Чиндан ҳам отаси айтмиш, жин босар экан, ёзувчи одамни. Ишга киришдингми – зикру хаёлинг ана ўша тўқимада, қолгани - фақат алахсиш, фақат чалғишдек туюлар экан. Ўтган ой ичида анча-мунча қоғозларни қоралаб қўйди Абдулла, айтмовдими: “Шу қиш узлат қилиб ўтирсам, қиссани ёзиб битказаман” - деб. Афсус, ишнинг белига от тепди. Анави анди татар топган қўлёзмасини уйдаги биттаю битта жомадонга босиб, ўзи билан олиб келди. Ўқирмикан барини? Эскичага кўзи ўтармикан? Ё яна ўзининг қора кўзларидан ёллаб, уларга ўқитармикан?