Monologue to mother (translation of B.Mozolevskiy poem)
On those paths beyond the distant steppes,
Beyond the sagebrush, gray against the haze,
Where Your wounded feet once walked their steps —
Thorns, dear mother, grew like grass in place.
I gather all my gains into one hand.
My plough is heavy, barren is my land.
You wished me happiness with all your heart —
But did not see… May earth be soft, your part.
I walk, yet all is never enough —
The roads, the goals, the friends, the striving ways.
You knew something rare in this world, mother,
Which I will never comprehend in my days.
So often, when annoyance fills my soul,
When heights resist and I can’t reach the sky,
I call to You for guidance — but my voice
Dies in the air, unanswered, passing by.
And once again I lie awake at night,
Because this world is mine, yet all is mine!
Already the third roosters crow in fight,
But day won’t come, and sun refuses to shine.
I look along my path, heart bruised and torn,
Cold haze pierces through my chest and lungs.
On those same paths, where once I burned for the world,
Something sharp breaks forth from the earth among.
Червень 2016.
ID:
1048514
ТИП: Поезія
СТИЛЬОВІ ЖАНРИ: Ліричний
ВИД ТВОРУ: Вірш
ТЕМАТИКА: Філософська лірика
дата надходження: 27.09.2025 23:48:33
© дата внесення змiн: 04.10.2025 02:45:16
автор: Ангеліна Спільник
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