No sobs are heard. The orchestras rust.
Orators, worn out, rest without a throb.
For laid to rest is not a general or a snob,
But a simple yellow corn cob.
The coffin made of dumb stupidity,
Laid out with inexperienced crudity.
My worn out thoughts after it trudge.
Over whom shall I weep? Whom shall I judge?
To whom impute the failure to budge?
Whom shall I shake by collar and soul?
Whom shall I curse for this senseless death?
A simple corn cob died and yet I must cry
Filled as I am by sorrow and anger.
Oh my corn cob, why did they turn you into manure?
My corn cob, dear, what wrongs have you committed
It took much human labour for you to mature
And much abundance of the field to produce you.
Sleepless nights and worried days,
Sweat and callouses and burning brain,
Now laid alongside with the cob
Decaying together in the rain.
Curses upon you, cunning thieves
Whatever your high rank might be!
You killed the corn cob
As you kill off the hopes of humanity.
Перекладач: M. Bohachevsky-Chomiak
Оригінал: Некролог кукурудзяному качанові, що згнив на заготпункті