The sun has carved a white cameo on the window of the Lord.
Perhaps tonight in Ichkeria the sky is also white.
The sky is white and the Chechen eagles cannot sleep -
How could they sleep?
It's snowing. The ruined vineyard is turning pale.
It's snowing. The Vainakhs guard their mountain peaks.
And if tonight the sky of Grozny is set ablaze,
How can those lions, the Caucasians, stay silent?
Where are the invincible, headstrong horsemen?
How I wish I could saddle up all of Georgia's horses
And muster up an army in the meadows of Iveri.
What is life if not the urge to engage the enemy in the game of war?
What is death if your heart is boiling with rage?
What is life if the enemy has stripped us of our honour?
If only I could bring my country back to life
I would astound it with my Georgian courage.
I'd make the great bells thunder in their belfries.
I'd follow Prince Cholokashvili to fight beside the Vainakhs!
I'd butcher the hearts of wicked souls.
I'd sheltered the Chechen's beautiful daughters.
I'd shatter the ice smothering roses and violets.
I'd breathe life into my frozen Caucasians.
Wounded, I would rouse myself with rage.
I'd flood myself like sunlight over the mountain peaks.
I'd force the enemy to dance on the points of their swords.
I'd confound the treachery of Judas traitors.
I'd wreak havoc on the Mongols and the Kalmyks.
I'd dress Russian generals in cheap felt boots
And dispatch their go-go girls back home for good.
Then I'd take a rest under a Chechen roof in the Pankisi Gorge.
Far from Georgia I'd lay the Russian boot to rest.
And then I'd rest in peace.
It's snowing furiously. The sun is carving a white cameo.
The night is white. Furiously white.
In Ichkeria perhaps it snows on Chechen eagles.
How can I sleep?