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Khevsur looks so glum,
He won't even look at the gun,
He sheds a tear with a feeling.
And though his booty's worth a lot,
To disarm his enemy he's unwilling.
He won't cut off the man's right hand,
He whispers to the corpse: Mutsal,
A hero you in battle fell,
Your hand was steadfast.
I'd better have it turn to ash
At rest on your so mighty a body,
Instead of being your foe's fetish
Nailed in his mountain aboding.
The one who holds enmity supreme,
Who sows ruin everywhere,
Let him in his hut obscure and dim
Have a pond of human blood to bear.
Let him imbibe it from a cup,
And eat in bread; and as if in a shrine
The sacred thing he'd worship and
praise up,
Making a cross with bloody hands of
Let him, the generous bridegroom,
Receive his guests coming in flood,
Invite them to the table in his room
And entertain them in a pool of blood.
And let him make his bed in it,
Where he will lie down with his wife,
And he'll beget himself many a kid
And live a happy family life.
And, finally, he'll lie, the doom of
death fulfilled,
Into his bloody coffin funereal.
If you have killed, you'll also be
His family won't forgive you,
the killer.
After the Kistins at daybreak
I went across the mountains gray
And, noticing a fresh-made track,
I caught with them by cutting my way.
There were two of them to make my goal,
One infidel I struck down hard.
But Mutsal, God may save his soul,
He had the iron in place of his heart.
You mean in heaven he may rest?
I value prowess and zest,
One cannot buy it at the market place.
Three times Mutsal fired at me,
it was three times that I shot back.
My third shot killed him nearly
And made the hero a wreck.
He stopped his wound up with the grass
And in a frenzied fit he spoke,
Losing his strength, passing out fast,
Was naming me a treacherous dog.
We're always prone to believing
That we're worthy of salvation,
For infidels, that breed of evil,
We prophesy the hell's damnation.
All that we just repeat in vain
The sons of God should better know.
Those who often invoke His name
May not reveal the whole truth though.
It dawned on me that to cut off
His gallant hand would be unfair.
I may be losing fame and worth,
But listening to the voice of heart
I'd rather dare.
You'd better die without a word
Than lie to us about that horror.
You might as well take off your sword
And lay it down for women to borrow.
Your shield they may find also a fun
And use it as a weaving tool.
And it is easy to turn your gun
Into a spindle, to spin wool.
You've run away from Kistins, dog!
Worse than a woman. You killed Mutsal.
Why didn't you bring his hand along?
Why were you chasing them at all?
And all of them turned their backs
On Aluda, filled with contempt.
And they all went to their shacks
And left the village deserted, empty.
Aluda's standing all alone,
Hurt by disdain, malevolent and cold.
Never before, in word or tone,
He's been despised by the young and
I'm alive against my will.
Stab me with a dagger
With all your zeal.
Just pierce me through,
For me to get rid
Of life so cheerless and appalling,
So the villagers would feed
On cruel enmity and warring.
Aluda, eat at least a crumb.
Why at the sight of a corpse you droop?
The guest must go home full,
Pour Aluda some more soup.
Aluda, since the time of your granddad
We cut off hands of the Kistins.
Alas, Khevsurs, the law is bad
That bears the mark of old sins.
I will be fighting, but never again
Shall I disgrace the dead.
You will! Since the time of your
We cut off hands of the Kistins.
I could do it too, or could I not?
But what on earth do I need it for?
It can't be used instead of a sword,
It's no good as a shield any more.
Aluda, since the time of your granddad
We cut off hands of the Kistins.
Alas, Khevsurs, the law is bad
That bears the mark of old sins.
Tell me, Aluda, who's it for
That you make a sacrifice today?
Our ruler is the

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