BOTEV, Hristo


The Hanging of Levski

O you, my Mother, my Native Land,

Why is your cry so sad and heart-rending!

And you, O Raven, accursed bird,

On whose grave croak you of ill impending?

I know, ah I know, you weep, my Mother,

Because you're a slave in bondage lying,

You weep because your sacred voice

Is a helpless voice in a desert crying.

Weep on, weep on! Near Sofia town

A ghastly gallows I have seen standing,

And your own son, Bulgaria,

There with dreadful force is hanging.

The raven gives its grim hoarse croak,
Dogs yelp, wolves howl, the sky is bleak,

Old men in prayers their God invoke,

Women shed tears, the children shriek.

The winter sings its evil song,

Squalls chase the thistles in the plain,

And cold and frost and hopeless tears

Wring and twist your heart with pain.


To My Youth

Put aside that song of love,

do not fill my heart with pain -

I'm young but I don't know of youth

and if I did I wouldn't claim

the thing I trample underfoot

before you, and begin to hate.

Forget about the time I craved

a gentle glance, a sigh or two:

you had me chained up like a slave -

and for a single smile from you

the world filled me with wild disgust

and I cast my feelings in the dust.

Forget the madness of those times,

there's no lovelight within this breast

and no way you can make it shine,

there, where a heavy sadness rests,

where everything is lacerated

and a hating heart is wrapped in hatred.

You have your youth - your voice enchants -

but do you hear the forest singing?

Do you hear the poor lament? -

That voice is the spirit longing

and there my wounded heart is called,

where blood is spattered over all.

O, don't say bitter things to me.
Hear the woods and foliage moan,

hear the thunder of past centuries

and, word by word, how they intone

tales which long ago took place

and songs of hardships yet to face.

I'd have you sing that song as well,

to sing it, girl, and make it ache,

to sing how brother, brothers sell,

how strength and youth but run to waste

and how a widow mourns her lover

and little homeless children suffer.

Sing - or, silent, go your way.

My heart is trembling - it will fly
it will fly, beloved - come, awake -

to where malignant, terrifying cries

and a monstrous litany of death

break from the rumbling, shaking earth.

There - the storm tears trees aside

and a sword enfolds them in a wreath;

terrible chasms are gaping wide

and through them leaden bullets shriek;

and there death comes with smiling face

and sweet rest and a chilly grave.

O, those songs, that smiling face.

Whose voice will call and sing of me? -

My toast - a cup of blood - I'll raise

to drink that love pass silently,

and then, alone, I'll make my song

of what I love, for what I long…

Hadji Dimiter

He lives, still he lives! In the mountain fast,

soaked in blood, he lies and groans,

a rebel, wounded in the chest,

a rebel, young and with a manly strength.

To one side he has thrown a gun,

to the other a sword in broken pieces,

his head rolls, his eyes are dulled,

his mouth describes the universe with curses.

The rebel lies, and in the sky

there burns a motionless and angry sun;

a harvester sings in field nearby,

and faster still his lifeblood runs.

It's harvest now. Slave girls - chant

your songs of grief. And you, sun, shine

upon this land of slaves. My heart

be hushed. One rebel more will die

He who falls while fighting to be free

can never die: for him the sky

and earth, the trees and beasts shall keen,

to him the minstrel's song shall rise…

By day he's shaded by an eagle,

a wolf licks gently at his wounds,

above, a falcon - bird of rebels -

tends to this rebel as a brother would.

The moon comes out and day grows dim,

on heaven's vault the stars now throng,

the forest rustles, quiet stirs the wind,

the mountains sing an outlaw song.

Wood-sprites, in their white-hued dress,

fair and beautiful, take up the tune,

hushed their footfall in the grass,

as all about him then sit down.

One sprinkles coolness over him,

another binds his wound with herbs,

a third's quick kisses touch his lips

and softly smiles as he looks up at her.

Where is Karadja? - sister, say.

Where is my faithful company?

Tell me, then bear my soul away -

sister, this is where I want to die.

Enraptured then they all embrace

and heavenwards fly, still singing on

they fly and sing till morning overtakes

their quest to find Karadja's soul…

On the mountainside - as day has dawned -

the rebel lies, his lifeblood runs,

the wolf licks at his bitter wound

and the sun, again, now burns - and burns.


My Prayer

Oh, you, my God, my fair God,

who doesn't live in Heaven up,

but you, who are in me, my God,

into my soul and in my heart.

Not you to whom the monks and priests

make their bows and bend, not you

whom all the ortodoxal beasts

light up the sacred tapers to.

Not you who made of mud and dirt

the man, the woman, but forsakes

the human being on the Earth

to be its everlasting slave.

Not you who's consecrated kings,

the patriarchs and every Pope,

not you who's left in misery

my poor brothers in the woe.

Not you, who teaches slaves to pray,

to cry for mercy and to bear

the suffering until the grave

with their hopes in vain to cherish.

Not you, oh, God of liars, who

has blessed dishonest tyrants all,

not you, an idol of the fools,

an idol of the human foes.

But you, oh, God of sense and mind,

oh, God, defender of the slaves,

whose day the people and mankind

are going soon to celebrate.

Inspire everyone, oh, God

with love alive for freedom, then

each one will struggle as he could

with all the enemies of men.

And at the end support my arms,

when rises the revolt of slaves,

in rows of their fight at last

to find also my only grave.

Don't let abroad this vigour heart

lost in youth cool down at present.

Don't let my voice unlikely pass

silently as through the desert.

To My Mother

Was it you, dear mother, keened so plaintively,

Cursed me for three long years

To wander a hapless vagabond,

To encounter what my soul despises?

Haven't I squandered father's savings

Wounding you deeply -

While my green youth, dear mother

Dries up and fades, sorely afflicted!

My good friends deem me happy

Because I laugh together with them.

They don't know how I rot inside -

How my youth has felt the frost's sting!

How could they know? I have no friend

To confide the secrets of my heart:

Whom I love - what I believe in -

My dreams and thoughts... my suffering.

Besides you there's no one, dear mother -

You are my love and my faith;

But I no longer hope to embrace you here,

My heart turns to ash!

I dreamed many a dream, dear mother -

We'd share happiness and glory together.

I had the strength - what didn't I desire?!

But for all my desires - a pit lay in wait.

One thing remained, poor one:

To fall into your dear embrace -

So this young heart, this suffering soul

Might seek your solace, poor wretch ...

Father and sister, and dear brothers

I want to embrace you without hard feelings,

Then let my veins turn cold -

Then let me rot in the grave!