Mother tongue! Oh how you are so precious to me!
I think in Abkhazian, dream,
Always, no matter what side your on,
I don't forget my native language.
But I write poems in Russian.
Don't judge me strictly for this.
Try to understand me, please.
Maybe I'll fix it up a little.
Our complex world does not stand still,
He pours like a rushing river.
But no matter what we have to survive-
The native language stays forever.
I'm neither a thinker nor a prophet -
I will not be given a monument for this.
But as far as I could,
I want to glorify my native language.
The story goes on -
She certainly won't notice me.
But let at least with this small poem,
I will try to tag myself in it.
And will try just for that,
So that we don't forget our native language,
Always loved and remembered,
And to write their poems on it.
Sukhum
Abkhazia

Oh Almighty you know what for me
There is only one joy in this life
The one to whom I am forever faithful,
Warada song of my ancestors
Give your life to your people
I don't need any other happiness.
Forever in heart and mind,
In joy and in grief - Warada.
How silently the orphan cires,
Over the grave of our beloved mother,
So over the fatherland the song is that,
The sea spilled beyond belief
Let my fate be joyless,
May it be full of cruelty and pain,
But when I hear this song I-
And the sadness leaves unittingly
And she's still as wide,
Over my dream sounds victorious,
As it sounded in ancient times,
The whirlwind flew by without a trace.
With her I will not be alone,
Because it has familiar sounds.
God will help me with this song
To survive both the grief and torment.
However difficult your path may be,
For you - as the highest reward -
In joy and sorrow do not forget:
Warada Warada Warada
Sukhum
Abkhazia