Oh, my friends, Muslims,
Pain will moan in my heart,
In the hands of a rich man’s son,
Playing chess, a mulberry branch will moan.
Don’t leave this world as a coward,
You’ll lose your mind and die;
A fire will be set on the high mountain,
Dry things will catch fire, but wet ones will moan.
I’ve seen a maiden among Turkmen moving somewhere,
The smell of musk is coming from her hair,
On the meadows, among the herd,
The foals of wild mustangs will moan.
Magtymguly, my words are true,
But still there is no one who believes the words of truth,
If a noble young man has no son,
His hearth will disappear, his people will moan.