Three Palms Poem by Emil Sharafutdinov

(An eastern legend)
From Lermontov

In the waterless plains of Arabian land
Three palm trees rose tall and grand.
And there a spring from the fruitless earth,
Purling amid them, used to come forth,
Harbored under the shade of the plants
From burning rays and flying sands.

And many long years were quietly spent;
But a weary traveler from a far-away land
Had not yet bent his sweltered bosom
To the cool water beneath the trees' blossom,
And the resonant brook and the luscious leaves
Started to dry from the scorching sunbeams.

And started the palms to murmur at God,
«Why have we grown to dry in this sand?
Uselessly we in the desert were born,
Scorched by the heat and swung by the storm,
Pleasing no one's benevolent eye? ..
Unjust is your verdict, oh, gracious sky! »

By the moment they finished — on the horizon
Golden clouds of sand had already been rising;
Inharmonious sounds of bells were heard,
Motley carpeted bales in the distance emerged
And, swaying like boats, in single file went
One camel after another, ploughing the sand.

Dangling, hang down the tracery laps
Of the travelling tents between the stiff humps;
Tanned little hands raised them at times,
And from within sparkled black eyes…
And bending the slender waist to the steed,
An Arab whipped it up to full speed.

And now and then the black stallion pranced
And like an arrow wounded leopard danced;
And the folds of the rider's white dress
Streamed down his shoulders in a beautiful mess;
With a shout and whistle he galloped aside,
Lanced his spear and caught it in flight.

Here the caravan came to the trees
And merrily camped in the shade of the leaves.
Jugs were filled in the sounding brook,
And the palms their heads proudly shook,
Greeting the guests upon the arrival,
While the brook contributed to their revival.

But the moment the country fell into dusk,
Axes were set to work their task,
And down the nurslings of centuries went!
By the infants their attire was rent,
Their bodies were hewn later on
And slowly they were burned until dawn.

By the time the night mist was blown away,
The caravan had been again underway;
And the cold and grey ashes were left as a trace,
Faintly marking the barren surface;
And after the sun burned up the remains,
Wind scattered them in the boundless plains.

Today it is all wild and empty around —
The leaves with the rattling spring pass no sound:
In vain for a shade it appeals to the god —
Being covered only with searing sand,
And a falcon of desert alone could be seen
Tearing and pecking its prey by the spring.