Ukrainian Poetry translations by Michael R Burch

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?