Batyrova Zayda Biography

She was born in the year in the village of Huns. In the year she graduated from the Faculty of Philology of Dagestan University, worked as a Russian language teacher, the editor of the Avar output of the magazine “Woman of Dagestan”, and headed the cabinet of textbooks and publishing work. Batirova wrote the first poem in the year, since then more than 20 of her books have been published in Avar and Russian.

In spring and summer, other edges can be seen in other edges, the roads will soon lay ... What will I take with me? There is no previous pride in the country, its thieves took it away, replacing the light with the darkness of the former joy, and great glory - shame. They recall with contempt those names that should pray for. Is it really not true, but a lie - letters on the history of our pages?

Our life, what almost flew? And all the criminal case merges the previous homeland of the case? Road Hurdin is full of hope, faith in the best in it remains a dream that the dawn sun will shine through the clouds of frantic lies! With tears, I write gloomy lines at the fork of past and future roads. The indifferent time measured the deadlines, apparently, the wanderings of the body.

And soon to summarize the result, answering evil questions: why, on my passing eyelid, I was naive like sailors-those that believe the beacon on the way? Why did fakes led behind them, and they came to power over the world? Is it not with the fact that the conscience of our scraps are hopelessly languishing in the road dust? Why, when they robbed everything indiscriminately, stuffing my pockets with folk kindness, I didn’t spit with a word in a damned thief to struggle with the curse of the curse?

How did I not understand the essence of me? In a simple -hearted unknown, who is to blame? At my last I stand a crossroads: it’s scary to move forward, it is impossible - back ... what are the guilty ones to look for, since it is to blame? Not born by me, the words were killed that could prevent the dashings once. Yes, the words died. Only the memory is alive! There is no hypocrisy in it and there is no betrayal.

Sorry, native lands. But I tried to be faithful to my father’s covenants. In this memory - my bitter joy and their souls have long been dead, because the honor and their conscience are captured by evil. Cry, Dagestan, today is not about those who left this world with a clear conscience. Call those who deceive is not a sin, about those who are only gold - an idol.

Cry, Dagestan, about those who have forgotten about the honor of the ancestors, apparently forever. Is it because the stones of their graves cracked from shame today? Cry, Dagestan, about those whom the language will not turn to call mothers. About those who do not shed and half-seals, throwing children into the house of orphans again. Cry, Dagestan, about those who have forgotten their home in pursuit of profit.

In your hand, yes, they will become, my eternal, their days are empty in the pisses of fate. Cry, Dagestan, about those to whom Anya adat today is only an empty sound. Shamil and Ahulgo ... Names and dates do not remember in pursuit of money. Cry, Dagestan, about those who glorify evil, who scraps about criminals. For those who are so “lucky” in life, who were taken into the slaves.

Cry, Dagestan, about those to whom to saddle the horse today is a great work, about those sob those who are scolding the homeland and the mothers are no longer honored. Cry, Dagestan, as I cry today, and do not be ashamed, beloved, bright tears. They are more transparent than a mountain stream, but in them - the holy source of the future thunderstorms! What beauty you admired, my eyes, presented generously to the earth with a native!

You, the prophetic heavens of Sinev, filled to the bottom an open soul with an unknown force, so that she would take away the evil avalanches of fate, and she keeps the heart from all rockfalls. On the braids of the tarry years, they left their mark like furrows in the field, absorbed the wrinkles of the cares of the roads I was icing. Yes, only through the time of the only homeland, the light, as before, is illuminated by the valleys.

He is eternal.

And old age is to understand this term. With the first love, childhood ends, a star rises in the sky in the sky to remain a winged inheritance in the heart of a hot already forever. Everything is ahead: acquisitions and disputes, the bums of hope and winter of insults, and the conviction that the rainbow of first love will illuminate the memory of the mountain! She will generously touch on every soul, like a saint's smile, a saint.