I do not murmur at the Lord
("Ne narikaiu ya na Boha")
I do not murmur at the Lord,
I do not murmur at a soul,
I fool myself in my despair
And sing as well.
For I will plough
My meadow, mu poor, humble field,
This word of mine; a harvest rich
Will come some day from it.
Myself, my own poor, humble person
And no one else, as I can see.
Be thou ploughed, my humble meadow,
From the top to bottom.
Be thou planted, this black meadow
With the shining freedom.
Be thou ploughed, and well turned over,
Let the soil be levelled.
Be thou sown with seed most fertile,
Watered by good fortune.
Be thou turned in all directions,
Ever fertile meadow.
Be not sown with words unmeaning
But with reason, meadow.
Men will come to reap the harvest
In a happy moment —
Be well worked and be well levelled,
Poor and barren meadow.
Do I not fool myself again
With this fantastic word of hope?
I do! But it is better fa r
To fool myself, my very self,
Than live at peace with my cruel foe
And vainly murmur at the Lord.
"Ne narikaiu ya na Boha"
("Не нарікаю я на Бога")
1860, S.- Peterburh (С.- Петербург)
Translated by Clarence A. Manning
Taras Shevchenko. Zibrannia tvoriv: U 6 t. — K., 2003. — T. 2:
Poeziia 1847-1861. — S. 355; 748.
Taras Shevchenko. Works. Volume 12. Shevchenko's poetry in translations.
Edited by Bolidan Krawciw. Printed by Mykola Denysiuk Printing Company
Chicago, Illinois — USA, 1963, page 71.