Not asking frankly to understand my sufferings,
How can he judge just by looking at my appearance?
Not becoming of mature age to be able to twist the ear of my soul,
I won’t be able to tell what sufferings I have gone through.
I don’t understand what my end will look like,
I have stayed away from ill-natured men for so long,
Seventy seven times I am grateful to the Creator,
Whether bad or good, whatever there is for me to confront.
Oh, dear, looking frankly into our eyes,
Do not show disbelief in the words by considering them not true,
Bread earned fairly will brighten the eyes,
Know this when you are deprived of my bread and food.
You must be happy with oat bread if you can find it,
If there is no value for life, forget your hope—
You will hear your soul utter, “Oh, Lord,” and lifting up toward the skies,
It will desire to free itself from the footwear, the soft leather boots and the turban.
Magtymguly, bearing the humiliation of the enemies,
I used to suppress my anger.
Having spent the spring of my childhood,
There is no way to avoid the winter of old age.