124
THE KOBZAR OF THE UKRAINE
Death of the Soul
AS the nights pass, so pass the days,
The year itself passes.
Again I hear the rustling
of autumn leaves.
The light of the eyes is fading,
Memory is in the heart asleep.
Everything sleeps,
and I know not
If I live or am already dead.
For so, aimless
I wander in the world
No longer weep nor laugh.
Fate, where art thou?
Fate, where art thou?
There's none of any sort!
Dost grudge me good fate,
Oh God,
Then send it bad, as bad.
Leave me not
to a walking sleep.
With heart like bears'
in wintry den,
Nor yet like rotten log
on earth to lie;
But give me to live.
