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THE KOBZAR OF THE UKRAINE
115
Sorrows written on the heart
With unseen pen.
And a fourth year passes
So gently, so slowly,
The fourth book
of my imprisonment
I start to stitch up,
Embroidering it with tears
Of homesickness
in a foreign land.
Yet such woe
tells itself not in words.
Never, never
in the wide world.
In far away captivity
There are no words
Not even tears,
Just nothingness;
Not even God above thee.
Nothing is there to see,
None with whom to speak,
Not even desire for life.
Yet thou must live!
I must! I must!
But for what?
That I may not lose my soul?
My soul is not worth
such suffering!
Then why must I live on
in the world.
