Granite obelisks — medusas —
They crawled and crawled and then fell ill.
But in the graveyard of the spent illusions
There’s simply no more room to fill.
A million faiths — all driven to the ground
A million fates — all scattered like dust…
The soul’s enflamed, the mind in wrath abounds,
And hatred cackles on the cold wind’s gusts.
If all the tricked could see now,
If all the martyred rose,
The sky — all gray from course-vows
Would surely crack from gloom so utterly morose.
Think, oh sycophants; and tremble, murderers in your
confusion —
Life is not exactly as you’d will.
You hear me? — In the graveyard of illusions
There’s simply no more room to fill.
The nation is but one entire wound together,
The blood enfuriates the soil;
And every tyrant-murderer will have a tether
Just waiting round his neck to coil.
The martyred, and the murdered, and the killed,
Their hearts with vengeance rife,
All rise that judgment be fulfilled.
Their curse mil fall on evil things,
The time will come, from ropes will swing
Apostles of malignity and strife.
Перекладач: Andriy M. Freishyn-Chirovsky
Оригінал: Пророцтво 17-го року (ще не додано)
Мова: english
