On Khorosan's plain a great palace was raised.
The skill of the workers by all men was praised.
A labour of love was that pile from the start,
To stimulate passions and gladden the heart.
The greatest of artists made wondrous displays,
Each using his art to delight and amaze.
The Chinese designs were sublime, intertwined
And it seemed that the artist had heaven in mind.
One sculptor took clay and he moulded its form
Till gems were created, glowing and warm.
So perfect the objects caressing the sight,
Each one seemed illumed by some soft inner light.
That subtle, sweet magic when light interplays
Came straight from the hands of the masters we praise.
From small grains of sand and handfuls of clay
Grew cups more exquisite than flowers display.
What miracles wrought! Never art was more fine.
From tulips, not goblets, the guests quaffed their wine.
Saadi would expound his parables there.
Those years are long hidden, no man can tell where.
The years, fleet as waves on Jaikhun* sped their way,
As fleeting as tunes Rudaki used to play.
Jaikhun still recalls how the rud** sighed and sang,
It twists like Mejnun feeling love's cruel pang.

The wide river groans, "I'm in love, woe is me,
With love poems written by great Rudaki."
And famed Firdousi of the Book of Kings
Took part in contributing marvellous things.
The sage Avicenna, too, came to this place
With silvery hair and wise, gentle face.
What palace was this, what miraculous hall,
Where men from all lands came to answer its call? Where dwell those immortals in glory, where pray?
Are poets, astronomers nothing but clay?
The glory that shone on the tribes of our land
Was work of Tajiks, of their brain and their hand.
Tajikistan's genius-the flower full-blown,
Tajikistan's songs thro' the cent'ries are known.
On corpses great rulers ascended the throne.
A jackal was man unto man—and alone.
As water kills fire, since hist'ry began,
And flame consumes water, so man destroyed man.
The most savage tempest since humans drew breath
Was Genghis Khan's horde raising whirlwinds of death.
The fierce lightning struck, seared the heart of the world.
Then that tempest, too, into nothingness whirled.
The great name Tajik was no longer heard.
In no song or legend resounded that word,
A name on which nations did not waste their breath.
The place it once held was now shrivelled by death!
Our tribes were forgotten. Our hosts had to fly,
But our ancient nation did not want to die.
Men gazed at horizons to which they should start
And hid the great treasure of song in their heart.
Tajiks could live on if they but held their tongue.
By whips not a word from their lips could be wrung.
A new day rolled round that saw new breezes blow.
Soon all that could flourish had flowers ablow.
Great Lenin, from whom all our foes had to flee,
Brought nations a life in which man could be free.
The springtide is blessing the fields that we sow.
The sun has thawed ice of old glaciers of woe.
Tajiks, while still covered with dust of the way,
With poems began a new palace that day.
The songs Rudaki sang our young Tajiks sing.
The verse Firdousi wrote resounds in the spring.
Those poems and songs reach out to a star
And spread till their shade shelters men from afar.
We managed to keep our Tajik language pure,
Ensuring that treasures of song should endure.
Our song of victorious struggle we bring
To you our dear Moscow—together we'll sing