Simek is over, the wedding is over.
Merry wedding days are over.
Every day resembles another,
Life goes on.
In the field sowing’s in progress,
The wooden plough’s cutting the earth.
With sorrow Narspi’s heart
Is breaking, it is heavy.
In the meadow a scythe
Is throwing down the grass.
With anguish Narspi
Is sick at heart.
From day to day the sun rays
Are getting warmer and warmer.
From day to day Narspi’s heart
Is breaking from unbearable anguish.
Every day a whip is taken
From the nail on the wall.
Apparently Takhtaman
Holds his wife well in hand.

* * *

A nice little boy Sentti
Is always running outside.
Often straddling a yoke
He is playing as a rider.
Along the streets
He raises dust.
Dirty as a Gypsy boy
Returns home in the evening.
A nice little boy Sentti
Runs home with his horse.
And has his baby-talk
With his aunt Narspi.
Daughter-in-law Narspi
Is always sad, alone.
And she loves only Sentti,
Little son of her brother-in-law.
Daughter-in-law Narspi
Is always sad, alone.
And only talking to Sentti
She unburdens her heavy heart.

* * *

God has given him
Such a kind heart.
God has given him a bird’s soul
To smile, to jump, to play.
A seven-year old boy
Has truly a Chuvash heart.
Even when his eyes are full of tears,
His gentle lips are smiling.
A nice little boy Sentti
Longs for his aunt Narspi.
With his baby-talk
Gives some consolation to his aunt:
“Don’t cry, my auntie, don’t cry,
Wipe away your tears.
Don’t grieve, auntie,
Drive away your sorrow.”

* * *

Respectable son-in-law Takhtaman
Still remembers the wedding room.
Day after day mercilessly
He whips his wife.
And his wife, poor thing,
Stands his beating silently,
The short-witted husband whips
Not knowing what may happen.
Once a man came to the house
And had a talk with Takhtaman.
Narspi was out then,
They were speaking in whispers.
Narspi returns with a beer,
She is treating the guest.
As soon as he goes away,
The whip is taken from the wall:
“Well, this is how matters stand!
That sort of girl you are!
Having your own wedding,
You ran away with Setner!”

* * *

Takhtaman is beating, beating,
He is torturing his wife.
Among the village people
Soon the news is spread.
That’s how things are!
It happens very often.
Evil is done on the sly,
Under the cover of night.
The mother and father
Foster their daughter.
When she becomes a wife,
An old husband tortures her.
The mother and father have found
A wealthy husband for the daughter.
But what’s the use of it?
If they don’t love each other.
If a husband and wife
Live in peace and friendship.
Then a poor man is
Much happier than a rich one.

* * *

Whip her, whip her, Takhtaman,
Take out her heart!
Torture your wife, Takhtaman,
Treat her like a dog!
Whip her, whip her, Takhtaman,
Don’t let youth mock you!
Torture your wife, Takhtaman,
Let Narspi get old quicker!
Later perhaps you’ll reproach yourself,
Perhaps you will be sorry for this.
Whip her, whip her, Takhtaman,
Don’t let youth mock you!
Three weeks have passed
After Whitsunday days.
So much time Narspi stood
Her old husband’s torments.
But the next week
Once, a warm and clear night...
(But stop, wait a little.
Now is not the time.)