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The Cranes Life Brother, do you hear, Oh friend, do you hear How the cranes fly in a grey string Through the silent air. As they sigh, sigh, sigh, In a foreign land I’ll die, Wings too weary for the journey Cross the ocean far too wide. Translated excerpt from Bohdan Lepky’s “Zhuravli ” Untitled Oh yes. I know women should not advance With sword in hand and lightening in the blood, With martial step and with a huntman’s glance With resolution through both fire and flood. Why we are man’s true haven, calm and bright, Where like a shattered ship you turn to rest. The Virgin, not the Lion, is our light: For tenderness, not wrath, our name is blest. But hardly from your feeble hands in stress Slips down your weapon to the foeman’s feet Then the famed ravens drain our tenderness— That demon of battle and defeat. And then our fingers, long and slender, strive Top read conventions like old door-drapes worn, That from your hands your weapons we may rive And smite your enemies with proper scorn. But when the sparkling sword at last assuages In our determined grasp this manlike share, Time will unfold to us its ancient pages Of love and passion, tenderness and care ... —Olena Teliha, Translated by C.H. Andrusyshyn and Watson Kirkconnell Unhappy days to fragments shattered, At night the terror strangles tears Betrayed by life, you feel forsaken. But feel and you’ll forgive—let go. Is it a holiday? Has it been snowing? Why bother wondering? The soul is crushed and blind. A wingless bird, it sinks far into some unknown. But do not let it sink. Hang on, keep soaring. Pull harder—faster, faster, forge ahead! Believe that joy past human understanding Will one day come into your life. The snow will glisten, flowers will be sweet And murmur that a life-line is within your grasp. The life that has descended to such depths Will change. The meaning will return and make it dear to you. —Olena Teliha, dedicated to Wasyl Kurilenko Bandurist He sweeps the strings, and spun in slow cascades, Notes, dark and golden, from a cool dark well Somewhere behind the stars, fall, liquid, pure In sudden silence . . . Startled by the thrill And smiling, plays: the warm arpeggios Ripple impulsive under skillful hands, Long centuries resound .. . the quivered wood Trembles responsively ... he smiles, and sings, And his song weaves across the rippled chords A web of fantasy—woods green and dark, A thousandfold horizoned sea of gold, Wild rivers, ancient cities, wind-wide plains, And the lost graves of heroes . . . And his hands Beat at the strings, his voice throbs deep with tears, His white-boned fingers sweep their anguished pain In wild crescendos, the bandura shakes With ecstasies of keening grief, and all Ukraine pours forth her sorrow in his song. — Vera Rich, dedicated to Volodymyr Luciw
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