Beruflich Dokumente
Kultur Dokumente
My testament
Pereyaslav
December 25, 1845
***
When I die, pray, bury me
In my beloved Ukraine,
My tomb upon a grave mound high
Amid the spreading plain,
So that the fields, the boundless steppes,
The Dnieper's plunging shore
My eyes might see, and my ears hear
The mighty river roar.
***
I desire to be buried
Where the Dnipro's running by.
On this land of steppes and cherries
Bury me when I die.
The Testament
Translated by E. L. Voynich
Testament
[Sankt Petersburg,
between April 17 and May 19, 1847]
***
It does not touch me, not a whit,
If I live in Ukraine or no,
If men recall me, or forget,
Lost as I am, in foreign snow, —
Touches me not the slightest whit.
Captive, to manhood I have grown
In strangers' homes, and by my own
Unmourned, a weeping captive still,
I'll die ; all that is mine, I will
Bear off, let not a trace remain
In our own glorious Ukraine,
Our own land — yet a stranger's rather.
And speaking with his son, no father
Will recall, nor bid him : Pray,
Pray, son ! Of old, for our Ukraine,
They tortured all his life away.
It does not touch me, not a whit,
Whether that son will pray, or no...
But it does touch me deep if knaves,
Evil rogues lull our Ukraine
Asleep, and only in the flames
Let her, all plundered, wake again...
That touches me with deepest pain.
[May, 1847
St. Petersburg. In the Fortress..]
From In the Fortress. III
***
I care not, shall I see my dear
Own land before I die, or no,
Nor who forgets me, buried here
In desert wastes of alien snow ;
Though all forget me, — better so.
Translated by E. L. Voynich
***
Beside the house, the cherry's flowering,
Above the trees the May bugs hum,
The ploughmen from the furrows come,
The girls all wander homeward, singing,
And mothers wait the meal for them.
[May, 1847
St. Petersburg. In the Fortress.]
An evening
***
Day comes and goes, night comes and goes...
Sinking your head in hands clasped tight,
You wonder why there still comes no
Apostle of wisdom, truth and right.
[1848
Kos-Aral.]
***
Why weighs the heart heavy ? Why drags life so dreary ?
Why is the heart weeping and sobbing and wailing
As a child cries from hunger ? Heart, heavy and weary,
What do you long for ? Why are you ailing ?
Are you longing for food or for drink or repose ?
Slumber, my heart, for eternity sleeping,
Uncovered ans shattered... Let hateful people
Rage on... O my heart, let your eyes gently close !...
13.XI. 1844
St. Petersburg.
Reaper
Translated by E. L. Voynich
***
Thy youth is over ; time has brought
Winter upon thee ; hope is grown
Chill as the north wind ; thou art old.
Sit thou in dark house alone ;
With no man converse shalt thou hold,
With no man shalt take counsel ; nought,
Nought art thou, nought be thy desire.
Sit still alone by thy dead fire
Till hope shall mock thee, fool, again,
Blinding thine eyes with frosty gleams,
Vexing thy soul with dreams, with dreams
Like snowflakes in the empty plain.
Sit thou alone, alone and dumb ;
Cry not for Spring, it will not come.
It will not enter at thy door,
Nor make thy garden green once more,
Nor cheer with hope thy withered age,
Nor loose thy spirit from the cage...
Sit still, sit still ! Thy life is spent ;
Nought art thou, be with nought content.
Translated by E. L. Voynich