A Crimean Tatar poet Bekir Chobanzadehad wrote those lines in 1918 and I think it reflects today’s Crimean Tatars position. Samuel Hodgkin has done a wonderful translation into English. Here, I would like to thank him for his ver valuable contribution.
The air is cold, the sky cloudy, rain’s falling
A bitter gale beating, washing my window
I wait for the new year, all alone,
Taking account of last year’s every love
Last year couldn’t set things right either,
It, too, departed, sinking into remorse
I can’t say what this year’s task might be,
I can’t find words fitting to my thoughts
I don’t have a new year then, in short
Our world is the old world of sorrows.
Our life—its anguish, its apprehension—
Is like a patched cloak, an unsteady staff.
A long year, and its last day’s a cold grave
We have no…
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