The Center for Central Asian Literatures in Translation

Among the offspring of our brown stallion, there was one very cute chestnut, stubby and barrelchested.  But he was somehow awkward and clumsy, he had his failings.  So what happened, then?  Father tethered him for several days in the cool winds of autumn and sat before him, playing the fiddle.  He rode him for a while and then played some more.  By doing this, the horse's behavior was mollified and it became my brother's and my  sweet-tempered horse.  And the people of our region used to praise the behavior and the belly of the horse known as the little chestnut....

the horsehead fiddle's playing

There is no explanation for what happens in the world.  There is an explanation as to why a fiddle's strings can be made from the tail of a horse.  It's said that the tail of a horse whose whinny is melodious will produce melodious songs.

One day, father was stringing his fiddle.  He took a pinch of white hairs from his quilted pouch and divided them into three parts.  So first, son, you choose ninety-nine, he said, and then you string the tongue;  a second time you count up to one hundred and eight, and then a third timeup to one hundred and fifty-three.  Then you stop counting and create the strings of wisdom and skillful means.  While I counted the hairs, father asked me,

"How many strings do you reckon the horsehead fiddle has?"  I found it hard to answer.  People say that the horsehead fiddle has two strings.  But , as I counted, I said that there were three hundred and sixty.  I hesitated in thought, as many people might have done,

"Two strings," I said.  Father said,

"How can you bring a song from two of anything?  It seems that we run our fingers along two strings, but in fact there are three hundred and sixty of them.  Everything has its reasons.  Three hundred sixty days to one year.  But just one quality."  This is what father told me.  So, please let the melody sound long and far away, as though playing the strings of a three hundred sixty days.

the horsehead fiddle's playing
 

Everything has its melody.  A song never fades away into nothingness.  Everything has its sign.  If you go into a house where there's a fiddle, it will reveal its harmony.  If you end up somewhere where there's no fiddle, the elders of the steppes will tell you that melody comes from oneself or from others.

Everything has its melody.  The children, unable to sit about with the blind musician called Greybeard and his family, passed five cups around, brought the water in, tuned up and let forth a song.

Everything has its melody.  As the partisans were returning from battle, they cut the barrels of their guns and made flutes.  They brought melody from their guns.

Everything has its melody.  The white feathergrass on the steppe, the gentle and wistful winds of autumn, but more delightful still is the melody.  The gentle orchestra of the twittering of birds.  Utterly silent, without a sound, it could be said that things await their wakening to song.  I was playing with stones captured from the spring and, once father had driven the animals, I trusted the beautiful clear melody of the stones, and this is what happened: 

When I was young I believed that stones could sing.
I thought, in fact, that I could see their magic power,
And wanted to lasso their farswung pendulum of songs.
I walked all day and followed an ancient river's stones.

Tapping the steel trashcan awakened the stone's harmony,
And it sang and clanged with song.
We listen to the water's flow beyond the years,
And think of many things and understand the earth.

The stones remain in the rivers, the waters unsinging,
But oh my motherland, may we not forget the eternal song!
Let the stones in the riverbeds sing out their desire!
And oh my motherland, may our own hearts not grow weak!

In the wrinkles of the endless flow of years,
Time after time, the fiddle sings its destiny.
We rejoice in the melody of the riverwater stones.
We love our belovèd motherland more and more.