by Hristo Botev

It's difficult to live, my brother,
among such thick-skulled blunderheads;
the fires of my youth are smothered,
my heart is torn to bitter shreds.

I love the land where I was born
and I protect its ancient wealth,
yet when I show these oafs my scorn
I bring destruction to myself.

Dreams of darkness, thoughts of storm,
have nailed my young soul to the cross.
O, who will place a friendly hand
upon my heart in its distress?

No one, no one. Freedom, joy
neither does it recognize;
yet it passionately joins
its answer to a people's cries.

Brother, I shed tears in secret
where anguished people are interred;
but, tell me, what should I respect
upon this dead, insidious earth?

Nothing, nothing. To a frank
and upright voice there's no reply,
and your soul, too, does not react
to the voice of God - a people's cry.