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On the Ruins A Dramatic Poem by LESYA UKRAYINKA (Larysa Kosach-Kvitka) Translated from the Ukrainian by DR. PERCIVAL CUNDY All Rights Reserved (Continued) TIRZAH (turning to go away from them) My sisters, peace to you! WOMAN: To thee be peace! And blessed be thou, sister of good hope! (A groan is heard from amongst those lying about. Tirzah goes thither and hailts beside a man who has just turned face upwards and is stretching his uplifted hands, clasped in despair, toward the moon) TIRZAH (bending over the man) My brother, sufferest thou? Thy wound still pains? Г11 bind it up again, 'twill easier be. MAN: This wound of mine can never be rebound! The wound here on my breast is long since healed^ But that within my heart for aye will smart! O thou, Jerusalem, Jerusalem! My native land’s forever throbbing wound! Unhealed, thou dost forever born in me!... (Groans again and wrings his hands) TIRZAH: But if the wound upon thy breast is healed, Thou shouldst arise and go to work. MAN: To work! What work is there for me? What kind? Wherewith? What means, what tools have I to labor with? TIRZAH: Jerusalem’s good earth did not burn up, Thou hast a sword. (Points to the dented sword which lies on the ground beside the man) MAN: What use is sword to me? A shattered ruin needeth no defense TIRZAH: Re-forge it, make a share. The time is come. The ruin needeth it for its defense, Because the foe will come and plough the soil, Will sow with seed and harvests reap therefrom, And with its food will feed the people here, A second time will conquer Palestine, Not with the sword, but with the gleaming share. Then will the orphan and the widow say: Blessed be he, whoever gives us bread! No native land hath he, who lies supine. To him who toils and reaps — to him the soil. Men will call this soil Babylonian, And therefore those same ruins looming there Will then be standing on a foreign soil. Who will there be then still to feel the smart Of that wound which was called Jerusalem? (The man rises and picks up his sword) MAN: Where shall I go then, to re-forge my sword? TIRZAH: (points to a fire which gleams a little distance away) Go thither, where there living people are, They'll give to thee some of their living fire. As. thy wound in thy heart doth glow and burn, So let the iron glow and burn in fire; There shape again out of thy killing sword A farmer’s ploughshare and then temper it, As I thy spirit have just tempered here With heat and coldness of my spoken word. MAN: Blesit be the word that can new temper give! (Takes his sword under his arm and goes toward the fire in the ruins) TIRZAH (singing): Arise, O Israel, set up thy tents!... (Among a group of sleepers, some begin to stir, some sit up. An old man replies in a sleepy voice) OLD MAN: Who sings? TIRZAH: One crying in the wilderness! (Singing) Prepare the way for God in all His strength, Make straight paths for His Spirit which draws near! OLD MAN: Accursed be he who wakes the conquered one, Accursed be he who steals the sleep from slaves; A lesser sin it is to rob the old, Or snatch away the crust from hungry mouths! TIRZAH: Who is the slave ? Who is the conquered one ? He only, who yields to the slavish yoke. OLD MAN: I bear no yoke, I sleep, and that is all. TIRZAH: Can there be aught that’s worse than such a yoke ? Once Jeremiah bore an iron yoke And thought it worse than aught else in the world, But if the prophet now could see thy sleep — The stone-like sleep of apathetic slave, His yoke would seem to him as feather-like Compared to thy chains imperceptible. Canst thou not rise from thine ingloriousness, Canst thou not lift a hand against thy shame? OLD MAN: Wherefore? To what, for what should I arise? TIRZAH: To work! to counsel! Rise to life renewed! That rising sun should not find thee inert, That liberation’s hour should not find' thee In idleness, in shameful slumber wrapped. OLD MAN: And what work doest thou ? TIRZAH: I rouse the folk. OLD MAN (settles himself more comfortably. With a feigned laugh) Awake me, when that hour of freedom comes! TIRZAH: For such as thee, that hour will never come. (Loudly calling) Are any living on this battlefield? (Beneath the trees beside the Jordan, can be heard a faint twanging of strings and a hesitant voice, which is singing with interruptions, as though trying to recall the words and melody of a psalm) VOI'SE: ‘How is the fine gold changed . the silver, how It has been dimmed O Zion’s daughter, hear! From out my eyes the tears in rivers flow. TIRZAH (goes toward the voice and stops before the singer who is plucking the rusted strings of a small harp manifestly patched together. The singer stops as she draws near, bends and lays the harp down) Why dost thou sing in such a timid voice? (To be continued) Українські скитальці по таборах в Німеччині стараються вчитись різних практичних фахів. На світлині бачимо кра вецьку школу в таборі у Міттенвальді під проводом Олени Лісецької.
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