Monologue to mother (translation of B. Mozolevskiy poem)
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.
