The Sore Nature

There’s silent night. A sleeping child is growing.
The veil of sadness o’er the world is soaring.

There’s no crescent in the heaven, endless, –
Just the wind’s whistling, wailing as in madness.

Impetuous wind, what now is your goal?
Who’s to drink poison from your fateful bowl?

Who’s to lie in the grave, you’re plotting here, –
My native country, comrade or my dear?


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, January 30, 2005
Corrected May-June 2008