That is all.
They have buried a very old man.
They interred him fore’er in a sanctum of soil.
No longer he’ll rise,
With the dawn in his eyes,
Climb the mountain with sickle to toil,
No longer with strickle the silence he’ll wake,
Watch the sky as the stars disappear,
And only the rye field will cry for his sake
Through the hundreds and thousands of years.
That is all.
They have buried a very good man,
Put him back in the womb of the soil.
But I doubt, and I ask it:
How in his casket
Did they fit all his toils,
And his fears?
Can it be he won’t care
If the sun shines or not,
If the night be forgot?
And pain finds my soul, and it snakes into there,
And it hurts me a lot.
I am ready
To believe in some heavenly place,
For I don’t want the holy,
The earth’s children shameless,
The children of toil
To enter the soil,
And enter not leaving a trace.
May the mad make a row
O’er the planet of spring;
May the blades of grass grow
Through the old rotten things.
I do not believe
That the dead man will rise;
That no —
He won’t fully die,
That his thoughts so unwise
Will be pondered by grandsons’ surmise.
And for ages his wrath,
All the pain and the joy and the sorrow he had,
And all which in death to his clan he was giving
Shall survive and shall live with the living.
Перекладач: Andriy M. Freishyn-Chirovsky
Оригінал: Дід умер