Mukhtar shakhanov biography of christopher

The lantern rocked and creaked,
alone in the inaudible snowstorm,
the snow flew and flew and flew —
higher and higher and higher.

In the dark, in the lacklustre sky,
a milky light shone.
In the dead of night at the gates
the lantern groaned in the wind.

A world so strange, so strange, so strange,
snow coming up to the roofs,
our own house flew in from heaven —
closer and closer and closer.

Deep in my soul, deep in my soul,
somehow it had got lost.
No windows or doors in it,
only funnels of light.

ALONG THE COUNTRY ROAD FORSAKEN BY GOD

Along the country road forsaken by God,
in that steppe, where there is nothing but feather grass,
I stroll mindlessly along,
barefoot, hearing the tender dust.

Feather grasses are brooms clinging to the wind.
For a hundred versts not a village in sight.
What do I care for lies circling the world.
How this golden dust is warm!

In this land forsaken by God, perhaps
the greatest kindness would be
to allow you to roam the field f