O my thoughts, my heartfelt thoughts,
I am troubled for you.
Why have you ranged yourselves on paper
In your ranks of sorrow?
Why did the wind not scatter you,
Like dust-motes, in the steppe?
Why did ill-fate not overlie
You, her babes, while she slept?

For ill-fate but bore you to mock and beclown you;
You were watered by tears -
why did they not drown you?
Sweep you down to the sea?
Wash you into the plain?
For no one would ask, then, what caused me to suffer,
Nor why I curse fortune, nor why I remain
In this world . . .
For they would not have sneered:
"He has nothing
To do!" in their scorn . . .

O my flowers, my children!
For what have I loved you and watched over you?
Is there one heart in the world to weep with you
As I have wept?
Maybe my guess will come true.

O my thoughts, my heartfelt thoughts,
My children, O my flowers,
I have reared, watched over you -
Where to send you now?
Go then to Ukraine, my children,

Our Ukraine so dear,
Wander on like homeless orphans,
I shall perish here.
There a true heart you will find,
A word of kindness for you,
There sincerity and truth,
And even, maybe, glory . . .
Bid them welcome, then, my mother,
My Ukraine, and smile
On these my children, still unwise,
As on thy own true child.

- Taras Shevchenko

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