The hanging of Vasil Levski by Hristo Botev translated by Ann WoodThe hanging of Vasil Levski
Oh, my mom, my dear lady, why so sorry, so kind of crying? Garnet, you, a bloody bird, on whose grave are you so ugly?
Oh, I know, I know you're crying, Mother, because you're a black slave, so your holy voice, Mother, is a voice without help, a voice in a wilderness.
Cry! There, near the city of Sofia, stands, I saw a black gallows, and your one son, Bulgaria, hangs on it with a terrible power.
The raven staggered ugly, greedy, dogs and wolves sprout in the fields, old people pray aloud, women cry, scream the children.
The winter sings its evil song, the whirlwinds chase the thorns in the field, and the cold, and the frost, and crying hopelessly bring to you a grief of heart.
Poetry by antoniya katelieva-wood
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Written on 2019-02-21 at 04:25
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