Lament of Iaroslavna

Snow. Light flurries falling
on the Prince’s palace.
Around it day and night
walks a tiny voice crying:
—Prince, my dearest Prince,
are you beyond the Danube?
Or on the Don River?
Send me some news of you
or I’ll die.
The Princess listens—only snow.
Only snow, and still more snow,
and beyond the field, beyond the forest
a tiny starving voice:
My father—war took him!
My mother—gone, too!
Who will plow, who will sow?
—Oh!

What a desert.

Again the Princess:
—Your services are needed,
black-browed Wind.
Somewhere the Prince is retreating
with a handful of his men,
—Turn the arrows from him,
send them whence they came.
The Princess listens—but there’s no wind,
only snow and cold,
and beyond the field, beyond the forest
voices can be heard:
It’s you we’ll turn!
It’s you we’ll send!
You’ll lie, like your Prince,
turned to stone.

What a desert.



—Dear Dnipro, dozing dreamer,
you are father to us all.
You at least must rise, since the Prince is gone—
let’s resurrect the kingdom!
A kingdom peaceful, just,
wise in its laws:
where some tend the land,
and others, the crown.
The Princess listens—only laughter,
only laughter rattling
and a noise, rumbling, rumbling
from the huts, from under the eaves
Maybe the Prince has returned from his campaign?
Maybe his men have come back?
The Princess listens—the clang of swords and clamor
and voices approaching:
It’s you we’ll resurrect!

What a desert.