The Tempest (Mickiewicz)

The sail is torn, the rudder bursts, the waters roar, All people yell, the pumps release a baleful wail, The ropes yanked out of deckhands’ palms: we’ve lost the sail! Lo! Sun in blood-shade setting, hope there is no more. The gale in triumph howls, and on the sodden hills That rise above the chaos of the fatal sea, A genius of death ascended, and now he Assails the fortress long destroyed and further kills. Some on the deck lie dying, drowning in despair; Some fall in neighbor’s arms and sadly say good bye; Some pray to drive the death away, some pray to die. One passenger sat calmly in a corner there, And thought: Oh happy he who’s swooned amid this hell, Or prays or knows a man to say the last farewell!

Burza (Mickiewicz) Буря (Мицкевич)