The prophecy of 1917 (англійською)

The granite obelisks, grizzly medusas,
Crawl on and fall.
On the graveyard of executed illusions
There is no room for more.

Millions of faiths are burrowed into the black earth,
Millions of joys are burned and scattered,
The soul burns, the angered minds aflame,
The hatred’s fanned in the roaring wind.

f all the deceived could but see
And all the executed arise,
The heaven, leadened by the cries,
Would burst from shame and blasphemy.

Tremble, killers; contemplate, you lackeys:
Life simply doesn’t fit your last.
You hear? On the graveyard of illusions
There is no room for more.

The people are already a single running wound,
The land is wild from blood.
Now every hangman and every tyrant
Awaits the hangman’s hood.

The dead, the hounded and the torn
Arise and go to form a court.
Their curses, angry and yet untold
Fall on the mouldy, satiated souls.

And the wind rocks the trees,
The last props of the apostles
of crime and swindle.
On earth both truth and love shall reign
And honest work will stand on guard for truth.

Перекладач: M. Bohachevsky-Chomiak
Оригінал: На цвинтарі розстріляних ілюзій
Мова: english

7 років ago

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