Page:The Kobzar of the Ukraine.pdf/117

Rh 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.