I

In the forest, night stokes up a fire.
Youthful trees grow ashen gray in fear.
Among crackling branches, climbing higher,
Shadows fall where axes sharp appear.
The Kirghizes, sitting in the glow,
Mirrored in their flashing blades, awake.
Branches crackle with a rooster's crow.
And like pearls when a necklace breaks
Falls the dew on praying hands, clasped tight,
Falls the dew on sparks, all rising higher.
And a soaring bird, sunk in the night,
Flutters in, its violin on fire.

II

A bronze figure leaps, a daring star
At the bonfire, comes in with a bound,
In a dance with silvery guitar,
Whirling with the forest all around.
Whirling. Drums. An ardent tune, a spell.
Till in sparkling rhythm of the rite —
All the forest swinging like a bell.
Last stars fall into the beards of night.
Drunkenly dance with him the Kirghizes
In a chain around the flaming dish.
And with waves like running spears, he freezes,
Tickles the horizons, the Irtysh.