Who will need me if at a difficult hour
Will I be like a wounded bird?
Or the Fatherland suddenly hearing a voice,
Am I not capable of calling myself a son of the Motherland?
Or for the honor of a sister in an unequal dispute
I’m not ready to fall to the ground slain, dying,
So that the mother, grieving, swallowed the bitterness of grief,
Was she proud, calling her son a brave man?
And if not blown away by the winds, I will finish the ancient ritual,
And I will prove the ability to conquer the rocky peaks,
I will not be deceived by gold, wealth, a saber “ters-maimal”,
But I will be a Konakh, a Chechen and a man.