In lovely Tajik gardens the finest flowers grow.
From springs gush crystal waters. The rivers swiftly flow.
When clouds loom over summits dark gales of winter blow
And gorges get no peace from pouring rain and snow.
The trees climb up the mountains to reach the glaciers' height
And tongues of green seem licking the snow packed hard and tight.
From every gorge and gully, untrammelled, fleet and strong,
Like foam-flecked stallions dashing, the torrents sweep along.
Grey-headed Pamir Mountains and their good friend Hissar
Send rivers of their bosom to valleys there on far.
Kaflrnigan is roaring and calling to Amu
While Vakhsh speeds down to Pyandzh, to its brother strong and true.
We're grateful to our rivers. Their beauty is our pride.
Tajiks love running water, those currents clear and wide
That bring to virgin steppelands cool water for new fields.
So giving Tajiks cotton and multiplying yields.
Canals of vital waters chant songs that have no end.
Collective farmers join them in praise of fields they tend.
Our capital is fed by the river Dushanbe.
It glitters in the sun—then thro' pipes it makes its way
To Tajiks' finest town.. On the river bank we laid
Our avenues and houses, with trees to lend us shade—
Where youth walks in its joy. Then we strung out lines to heights,
Where water churns out power to feed our city's lights.
The buildings of our cities, our fields and hamlets look
As if into a mirror, at river, lake and brook.
We have our troubled moments when raging rivers fling
Their waves and foam from mountains to break their banks in spring;
But Soviet man, the builder, has muscle, mind and blood
Much stronger than great rivers, far stronger than the flood.