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Dear God!
by Taras Shevchenko
translation by Michael R. Burch

Dear God, disaster again!
Life was once calm, serene...
But as soon as we began to break the chains
Of bondage that enslaved us,
The whip cracked! The serfs' blood flew!
Now, like ravenous wolves fighting over a bone,
The Imperial thugs are at each other's throats again.


Zapovit ("Testament")
by Taras Shevchenko
translation by Michael R. Burch

When I die, let them bury me
on some high, windy steppe,
my tomb a simple burial mound,
unnoticed and unwept.
Below me, my beloved Ukraine's
vast plains ... beyond, the shore
where the mighty Dnieper thunders
as her surging waters roar!
Then let her bear to the distant sea
the blood of all invaders,
before I rise, at last content
to leave this Earth forever.
For how, until that moment,
could I ever flee to God,
knowing my nation lives in chains,
that innocents shed blood?
Friends, free me from my grave — arise,
sundering your chains!
Water your freedom with blood spilled
by cruel tyrants' evil veins!
Then, when you're all one family,
a family of the free,
do not forget my good intent:
Remember me.


If the Last Rom Dies
by Mixa Kozimirenko
translation by Michael R. Burch

If the last Rom dies,
a star would vanish above the tent,
mountains and valleys moan,
horses whinny in open fields,
thunderclouds shroud the moon,
fiddles and guitars gently weep,
giants and dwarfs mourn.

If the last Rom dies…
what trace will the Roma have left?
Ask anyone, anywhere!

The Romani soul is in their songs—look there!
In lands near and far, everywhere,
Romani songs hearten human hearts.

Although their own road to happiness is hard,
they respect Freedom as well as God,
while searching for their heaven on earth.
But whether they’ve found it—ask them!


The Beggars
by Mixa Kozimirenko
translation by Michael R. Burch

How, please tell me, should I hide my eyes
when a beggar approaches me
and my fatherland has more beggars
than anyplace else?

Should I cover my eyes with my hands, so as not to see,
not to hear the words ripping my soul apart?

My closed eyes cry
as the beggars walk by...

Here’s another coming up to the car,
a youth crippled by life;
he offers meekly and sleepily
a simple song “for free.”

Next, a woman in black, who cannot
feed her children;
she weeps in the train cars
while the passengers feign sleep,
their eyes tight-shut, so as not to see,
not to hear the words ripping my soul apart.

It is Mother Ukraine who’s weeping?
Can it be that her cry is unheard?
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