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РОЗРИТА МОГИЛАПереклалаВІРА РІЧTHE PLUNDERED GRAVEPeaceful land, beloved country,0 my dear Ukraine!Why, my mother, have they robbed you?Why do you thus wane?Before the sun rose in the morningDid you fail to pray?Did you to your unsure babesNeglect to teach the way?— “I prayed, I worried, sleeping not,Neither night nor day,1 watched over my small children,Teaching them the way,And my flowers throve and grew,My children true and good,And there was a time, indeed.When in this world I ruled.Yes, indeed, I ruled . . . O Bohdan,O my foolish son!Look you well, now, on your mother,On Ukraine, your own,Who, as she rocked you, sang aboutHer unhappy fortune,And singing, wept a mother’s tears,Looking out for freedom! . . .Bohdan, O my little Bohdan!Had I known, in the cradleI’d have choked you, in my sleepI ’d have overlain you.Now my steppes have all been sold,In Jews’ and Germans' hands;And my sons at foreign toil,F ar in foreign lands;My brother, Dnipro, now runs dryAnd is deserting me;And my dear graves the MuscoviteIs plundering utterly.Let him dig and excavate,38