Hristo Botev Poems

1868
Don't cry, mother, don't grieve
that I grew up as an outlaw,
...

He lives, still he lives! In the mountain fast,
soaked in blood, he lies and groans,
a rebel, wounded in the chest,
...

A cloud of darkness has appeared
from the mountains and the forest:
does it mean a gentle drizzle
or a terrifying tempest?
...

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,
...

It's difficult to live, my brother,
among such thick-skulled blunderheads;
the fires of my youth are smothered,
...

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
...