O my thoughts, my heartfelt thoughts, I am troubled for youl
Why have you ranged yourselves on paper In your ranks of sorrow?
Why did the wind not scatter you, Like dust-motes, in the steppe?
Why did ill-fate not overlie You, her babes, whlle she slept?
For ill-fate but bore you to mock and beclown you;
You were watered by tears-why did they not drown you ?
Sweep you down to the sea ? Wash you into the plain ?
For no one would ask, then, what caused me to suffer,
Nor why I curse fortune, nor why I remain
In this world . . .
For they would not have sneered:
"He has nothing
To do!" in their scorn . . .
O my flowers, my children!
For what have I loved you and watched over you ?
Is there one heart in the world to weep with you
As I have wept ? Maybe my guess will come true.
O my thoughts, my heartfelt thoughts,
My children, O my flowers,
I have reared, watched over you-
Where to send you now ?
Go then to Ukraine, my children,
Our Ukraine so dear, Wander on like homeless orphans,
I shall perish here.
There a true heart you will find,
A word of kindness for you,
There sincerity and truth,
And even, maybe, glory . . .
Bid them welcome, then, my mother,
My Ukraine, and smile On these my children, still unwise,
As on thy own true child.
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