My precious son! What have I done to you?
My boy! Don't slip from these cruel hands that loved
you all these empty years. The hands that proved
the tyrant's touch turns soft for those fair few
who lodge within his heart. No! Damn these hands.
What writer kills his muse? What father takes
the life of his most gentle son? Awake,
my lovely boy! A hundred Kossak clans
upon their mounts could not remove your head
from my dead grasp. The thousand-thousand floods
that drowned the Earth could not absolve your blood.
I did not weep for all the countless dead
who rest upon my tongue. Why do I cry
for one? Arise, my son, and from here fly!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem