Friday, April 24, 2015

It Doesn’t Touch Me…



 (Translated by Vera Rich, 1961)




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 glorious Ukraine.
Our own land – yet a strangers’ rather.
And speaking with his son, no father
Will recall, nor bit 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 knave,
Evil rogues lull our Ukraine
Asleep, and only in the flames
Let her, all plundered, wake again…

That touches me with deepest pain.

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