Grandpa was detained and caught,
Transported to the village court,
Where he was suitably taught
The shame of stealing his own harvest.
“Grandpa, you stole your own.
Oh, what a shame to steal your labour.”
Grandpa was obviously distraught,
Scratched his head and chewed tobacco.
How difficult it is to see one’s guilt.
Grandpa, with his hearth-nourished dreams,
Can’t grasp the paradoxes of the age.
“Sure,” he mumbles into his fist,
“It’s wrong to steal.”
But how much worse,
Oh my uncotrollable verse!
Why did he steal, for what reason,
Why did he go to steal his own?
If only they’d put the sack he stole
On my own back.
Shame spits at me —
At my attempt —
Yet I must kill grandpa with contempt.
But I feel thunder rolling in my breast,
Who stole and throttled grandpa’s soul?
Who tied the hands of his conscience?
Where are they — grey-flanneled, nameless,
Fat demagogues and liars,
Who trampled the faith of grandpa
On their way to jobs and honours?
They should be locked up for plunder.
Evidence inadequate ? Oh!
The sacks of stolen faiths and hopes
Shall serve as evidence galore.
Перекладач: M. Bohachevsky-Chomiak