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NA
PROSTAVANE
(1868)
ot
Hristo Botev
Ne plachi, maiko, ne taszi,
Che stanah azi haidutin,
Haidutin, maiko, buntovnik,
Ta tebe kleta ostavih
Za parvo chedo da szalish!
No kalni, maiko, proklinai
Taz turska cherna prokuda
Deto naz mladi prodadi
Po taz teszka chuszbina –
Da hodim, da se skitame
Nemili, kleti, nedragi!
Az, znaia, maiko, mil sam ti
Che mosze mlad da zagina,
Ah , utre kato premina
Prez tiha biala Dunava!
No kaszi kakvo da pravia,
Kat me si, maiko, rodila
Sas sartze maszko, iunashko,
Ta sartze, maiko, ne trae
Da gleda turchin, che besnei
Nad bastino mi ogniste:
Tam, deto az sam porasnal
I parvo mliako zasukal;
Tam deto libe hubavo
Cherni si ochi vdigneshe
I s onaz tiha usmivka
V skrabno gi sartze vpieshe;
Tam deto basta I bratia
Cherni cherneiat za mene!…
Ah, male – maiko iunashka !
Prostime I vech prostavai!
Az veche pushka naramih
I na glas ticham naroden
Srestu vraga si bezverni.
Tam za milo, za drago,
Za teb , za, za basta , za bratia-
Za nego ste se zalovia ,
Pak… kakvoto sabia pokasze
I chestta, maiko, iunashka!
A ti , ‘ga chuesh, maino lio,
Che kurshum propei nad selo
I momtziveche naskochat,
Ti izlez, maiko, pitai gi –
De ti e chedo ostalo?
Ako ti kaszat, che azi
Padnal sam s kourshoum pronizan,
I togaz , maiko, ne plachi,
Nito pak slushai horata
Deto ste kazat za mene:
"Nehranimaika izleze",
No, idi, maiko, u doma
I s sartze vsichko razkatzi
Na moite bratia nevrastni,
Da pomniat I te da znaiat,
Che i te brat sa imali,
No brat im padna, zagina,
Zatui, che kletnik ne traia
Pred turtzi glava da sklania,
Siuromashko teglo da gleda!
Kaszi im, maiko, da pomniat,
Da pomniat, mene da tarsiat:
Bialo mi meso po skali,
Po skali I po orliatzi,
Cherni mi karvi v zemiata,
V zemiata,maiko, chernata!
Dano mi naidat poushkata,
Poushkata, maiko, sabiata,
I deto srestnat doushmanin-
Sas kourshum da go pozdraviat,
A pak sas sabia pomilvat…
Ako li, maiko, ne moszesh
Ot milost I tui da storish,
To ‘ga se sberat momite
Pred nazi na horo
I doidat moite vrastnitzi
I skrabno libe s drugaki,
Ti izlez, maiko, poslushai
Sas moite bratia nevrastni
Moita pesen iunashka-
Zasto I kak sam zaginal
I kakvi dumi izdumal
Pred smartta I pred drouszina…
Taszno stesh, maiko, da gledash
Na tui horo veselo
I kato srestnesh pogleda
Na moito libe houbavo,
Dalboko ste mi vazdahnat
Dve sartza mili za mene-
Neinoto, maiko, I tvoito!
I dve salzi ste da kapnat
Na stari gardi I mladi…
No tui stat bratia da vidiat
I koga, maiko, porastnat,
Kato brata si ste stanat-
Silno da liubiat I mraziat…
Ako li, male, maino le,
Sziv I zdrav stigna do selo,
Sziv I zdrav s bairak v raka,
Pod bairak lichni iunatzi,
Napeti v drehi voinishki,
S levove zlatni na chelo,
S iglianki pushki na ramo
I s sabi – zmii na krasta-
O, togaz , maiko iunashka!
O, libe milo hubavo!-
Berete zvetia v gradina,
Kasaite brashlian I zdravez,
Pletete ventzi I kitki,
Da kichim glavi I poushki!
I togas s venetz I kitka
Ti, ela, maiko, pri mene,
Ela me, maiko, pregarni
I v krasno chelo zelouni-
Krasno s dve doumi zaveni:
S v o b o d a ili s m a r t iunaska!
A az ste libe pregarna
S karvava raka prez ramo,
Da chui to sartze iunashko,
Kak tupa sartze, igrae;
Plachat mu da spra s zeluvka,
Salzi mu s usta da glatna…
Pak togaz … maiko, prostavai!
Ti, libe, ne me zabraviai!
Driszina tragva, otiva,
Tatiat e strashen no slaven:
Az mosze mlad da zagina…
No… stiga mi taia nagrada –
Da kasze niavga naroda:
Umria siromah za pravda
Za pravda I za svoboda…
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ON
PARTING
(1868)
by
Hristo Botev
Do not weep, mother, nor sorrow
That I have become a haidouk,
A haidouk, mother, a brigand,
Leaving you lone and unhappy,
Mourning the first of your children.
But, mother, blast with your curses
This black Turkish oppression
That sends us young men into exile.
To a strange land‘s desolation,
Unloved, unhappy, uncherished.
Well, I know, mother, you love me;
Maybe in my youth I shall perish
Tomorrow when I cross over
Beyond the calm, shining, Danube,
But what would you have me to do now?
Since you have borne me, mother,
With a strong heart of a hero?
That heart, Dear mother, can’t suffer
Seeing the Turks rage like mad dogs
Over the heart of my father’s,
There where I grew up into manhood,
Where the first milk I tasted,
There where my pretty sweetheart
Raised her black eyes to greet me
And with that smile so gentle
Sounded the depths of my sad heart,
There where my father and brothers
Mourn and pine for me, mother,
O, my heroic mother,
Pardon me now and forgive me!
Now I have shouldered my rifle
And run at the call of the nation
To face the infidel enemy.
There for all I hold dearest,
For you, for my father, for my brothers,
With that foe I must grapple.
Then- as the sword shall decide it,
The sword and the honor of heroes.
But
if you hear, Little mother,
Bullets sing over the village
Hurrying feet of the comrades
Then go out, Mother, and ask them
Where your son was last heard of.
If they should tell you I’m fallen
Struck by a Turkish bullet,
Do not weep for me, Mother.
Do not listen to people
When they grumble about me:
"He has turned out a wastrel"
Go home and tell my young brothers
Straight from your heart how it happened,
So that they know and remember
That they, too, had such a brother,
But that he fell and he perished
Because, poor fellow, he could not
Bow down his head to the Turks
And watch how the poor people suffered.
Tell them too to remember
To search for me till they find me,
Find my white flesh on the cliffs
And in the eyries of eagles,
And my black blood on the dark earth.
If they find my rifle, Mother, my sword too,
Then when they meet the enemy
They can greet him with bullets
And with the sword caress him.
But if you feel this beyond you
Because of your gentle nature
Gather the girls for dancing
And when my comrades assemble
And my sad love with her playmates,
Then come out, Mother, and listen
Along with my little brothers
To the song made about me,
Why and how I have fallen,
What were the words I have spoken
Before my death to my comrades,
You will look sadly, my Mother,
At the merry company dancing
And as that sad look catches
The eye of my pretty sweetheart
Two dear hearts will sigh deeply
For me, Mother, hers and yours,
And two tears will be falling
On the old breast and the young one,
And my young brothers will see it
And when they grow into manhood
They will become like their brother
Strong in love and I hatred.
If
I come Dear Little Mother,
Safe and sound back to the village
In my hands bearing the standard,
Under it all the brave heroes
Golden lions on their foreheads
With rifles slung on their shoulders,
Swords like snakes at their waistbelts,
Then, Oh Heroic Mother,
Oh, my dear pretty sweetheart
Gather ivy and cranesbill,
Wind them to wreaths and posies
To deck our heads and our rifles.
Then with a wreath and a posy
Come to me, Mother, embrace me,
Kiss my forehead made lovely
By two words evermore sacred:
F r e e d o m or D e a t h heroic.
I shall embrace my sweetheart,
A bloodstained hand on her shoulder,
Will draw her closer toward me.
I’ll stop her tears with my kisses
And with my lips I will drink them
And then- goodbye, Oh Mother,
Sweetheart, don’t forgive me!
The company’s starting already.
Our road is dreadful but glorious.
Perhaps I shall die in my youth
But enough for me is this guerdon
That people may say of me one day
" He died, poor fellow, for Justice,
For the cause of Justice and Freedom."
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