Taras Shevchenko, 1842-Kateryna
She's a ruffling tulip in stormy winds
Thunder builds up from within
She carries Kharkiv's weight on her wings
Time after time, her nation never wins
Scarlet skirt spreading against her legs
The village man sighs, about to trek
Horses rip through lands of silence
Barefoot, leaves crumble with eminence
Even the animals bark as they tremble
The markets catch fire; they become embers
She cries tears for each fallen man
Her flower crown falls to her hands
Ribbons fight the weather's wrath
For even her clothing wants to fight back
Windmills crack; their companion isn't there
Stolen by a filthy prince who heirs
Heart cooler than Siberia's forests
No regard for her, the poorest
Mountains kiss the horizon goodnight
For the battles drain them of light
Branches snap beneath her feet
Of the poor young woman, down by the Black Sea
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