Nikola Vaptsarov

(7 December 1909 - 23 July 1942 / Bulgaria)

Land


This land,
That I am treading on now,
This land,
That is woken by the south in the spring.

I do not know this land - my land,
This land, forgive me for saying: Is somebody else's!

I head out early.
Along a factory road
Countless workers clothes swarm together.

We are merged into one heart, one mind,
But this country... is not mine!

Above my land,
In spring-time
Splendor is reflected
Waterfalls storm from the radiant Sun.

You feel it close to your heart,
And watch as endless rows of flowers blossom.

Above my land,
Up to the skies
Pirin rises.

The pines chant Ilinden stories in a chorus.

Above Ohrid, the azure blends into the space,
And further beneath, rainbows are glistening as one on the Aegean.

I will recall,
And the blood will rush to
My heart, melting into some kind of gentleness....

My birth place! A place so beautiful....
Mothered in storms,
Nursed with blood amid fierce blizzards.

Along Belassitza wire-nets...

Submitted: Wednesday, July 23, 2014

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