Hristo Botev
Hristo Botev Poems
A cloud of darkness has appeared
from the mountains and the forest:
does it mean a gentle drizzle
or a terrifying tempest?
...
He lives, still he lives! In the mountain fast,
soaked in blood, he lies and groans,
a rebel, wounded in the chest,
...
In sorrow youth passes, in sorrows and pains,
Angrily boils the blood in the veins;
Lowering brows - the mind cannot see,
...
O you, my Mother, my Native Land,
Why is your cry so sad and heart-rending!
And you, O Raven, accursed bird,
...
Put aside that song of love,
do not fill my heart with pain -
I'm young but I don't know of youth
and if I did I wouldn't claim
...
O my God, my righteous God.
Not you, in heaven apart,
but you, who are within me, God -
...
'Rejoice, o people! Old and young
Praise God today, and praise the king!
'Tis Saint George's Day,' the sheep gave tongue
...
Was it you, mother, with your tearful song,
was it you who cursed me three years' long
to be a luckless, drifting waif
...
Hurry, stranger, quickly come
to your father's home at last,
do a dance before his home,
...
In the glade a pipe is played,
By the forest green and still,
Where Stoyana, fair, sweet maid,
Runs for water to the rill.
...
It's difficult to live, my brother,
among such thick-skulled blunderheads;
the fires of my youth are smothered,
...
Our feelings have made of us brothers
and our hidden thoughts have a same set,
I do not believe there's one thing
...
Hristo Botev Biography
Hristo Botev (Bulgarian: Христо Ботев, also transliterated as Hristo Botyov) , born Hristo Botyov Petkov , was a Bulgarian poet and national revolutionary. Botev is widely considered by Bulgarians to be a symbolic historical figure and national hero.)
The Best Poem Of Hristo Botev
A Cloud Of Darkness Has Appeared
A cloud of darkness has appeared
from the mountains and the forest:
does it mean a gentle drizzle
or a terrifying tempest?
Ah, granddad, these are troubled times.
Hard the dragging of the plough'
and behind the seeds you soul:
hail from your eyes, sweat from your brow.
Tell me, granddad, why you weep
upon this long, black furrow-lines.
Do you fear the cloud of darkness
or do your little children die?
Tell me, granddad - I remember
how you once walked brave and proud.
Granny Stoyna was alive then -
she was singing while you ploughed.
And - remember? - when I passed
through the forest, but last year,
you were seated among heroes,
a father to them, with your beard.
What a real man you were then.
Now you're weeping - granddad, why?
Is it that your heart grows old
or that your flag no longer flies.
'Ah, my son, why you ask?
Listen to the raven croak…
But when you go down to the village
you'll find out why the tears choke
an aged chieftain, following his plough.
For the village gathers all around,
in the square, to graze upon
my children, my young men.
Impaled on rows of poles
and stakes, you'll there discover
the heads of both of my sons
who banded up to kill each other.
Two brothers were opposing leaders,
two sons on whom I could depend:
they quarreled over who would now
be leader of their father's men.
As if the mountains were to small,
this band of rivalry to keep.
So today their heads stick up
and everyone who passes weeps.
God - strike me with thunderbolt.
Wind - like dust - then scatter me.
Not to look upon small children
and mothers in their misery
gathering round the stakes to wail -
raising hands to clasp their heads,
suffering in their deep despair,
barefoot, in rags, and filled with dread…'
Large raindrops have begun to fall,
ducks and geese fly up and call.
A terrifying tempest howls -
this is no gentle drizzle now.
Everyone through the village races,
but granddad won't unhitch the traces,
- Granddad, come along. Be fast.
- Wait, am help me die at last.
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