Black Shrine

This is our black shrine, Where my father lit the lamp. With dried dung in the cauldron, My mother stoked the fire. In the village, the sheepfold remains, Where the ewes gave birth to lambs, Their tails covered in dust, The camels cried out for their calves. Everything stayed far away, When we moved to the city. But my parents lit a flame, So the shrine's fire won't extinguish! I grew up learning farming, Watering sheep, tending livestock, Received plenty of guidance, From the small yard I knew. A kind mother's heart, worrying for her child, Her "May you thrive" curses soothed my soul. Parents are the critics of their child, May they forgive my mistakes... I brought them with me to the city, Keeping the shrine's fire alive. After turning twelve, I cut hay with sickle and scythe. Being the youngest in the house, I tended the samovar's flame. While guiding me through life, the youngest of the shrine, My parents rejoiced, seeing I could light the fire. In this house, like my father, I will now be the owner. Above me, without rest, Stands the spirit of the black shrine!