Hristo Botev Poems

'Rejoice, o people! Old and young
Praise God today, and praise the king!
'Tis Saint George's Day,' the sheep gave tongue
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1868
Don't cry, mother, don't grieve
that I grew up as an outlaw,
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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
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A cloud of darkness has appeared
from the mountains and the forest:
does it mean a gentle drizzle
or a terrifying tempest?
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He lives, still he lives! In the mountain fast,
soaked in blood, he lies and groans,
a rebel, wounded in the chest,
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In sorrow youth passes, in sorrows and pains,
Angrily boils the blood in the veins;
Lowering brows - the mind cannot see,
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O you, my Mother, my Native Land,
Why is your cry so sad and heart-rending!
And you, O Raven, accursed bird,
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O my God, my righteous God.
Not you, in heaven apart,
but you, who are within me, God -
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Was it you, mother, with your tearful song,
was it you who cursed me three years' long
to be a luckless, drifting waif
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Hurry, stranger, quickly come
to your father's home at last,
do a dance before his home,
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