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A Poem by Hristo Botev : To My Brother in Bulgarian , English & French

Hristo-Botev-circa-1875

English

To My Brother

It’s difficult to live, my brother,
among such thick-skulled blunderheads;
the fires of my youth are smothered,
my heart is torn to bitter shreds.

I love the land where I was born
and I protect its ancient wealth,
yet when I show these oafs my scorn
I bring destruction to myself.

Dreams of darkness, thoughts of storm,
have nailed my young soul to the cross.
O, who will place a friendly hand
upon my heart in its distress?

No one, no one. Freedom, joy
neither does it recognize;
yet it passionately joins
its answer to a people’s cries.

Brother, I shed tears in secret
where anguished people are interred;
but, tell me, what should I respect
upon this dead, insidious earth?

Nothing, nothing. To a frank
and upright voice there’s no reply,
and your soul, too, does not react
to the voice of God – a people’s cry.

***************************

Към брата си

Тежко, брате, се живее
между глупци неразбрани;
душата ми в огън тлее,
сърцето ми в люти рани.

Отечество мило любя,
неговият завет пазя;
но себе си, брате, губя,
тия глупци като мразя.

Мечти мрачни, мисли бурни
са разпалили душа млада;
ах, ръка си кой ще турне
на туй сърце, дето страда?

Никой, никой! То не знае
нито радост, ни свобода;
а безумно как играе
в отзив на плач из народа!

Често, брате, скришом плача
над народен гроб печален;
но, кажи ми, що да тача
в тоя мъртъв свят коварен?

Нищо, нищо! Отзив няма
на глас искрен, благороден,
пък и твойта й душа няма
на глас божий – плач народен!

*****************

A mon frère

French

Il est dur de vivre, mon frère,
Parmi de brumeux imbéciles.
Dans les blammes mon âme brûle,
Mon cœur meurt sous des plaies cuisantes.

J’aime tendrement ma patrie.
Je conserve son héritage,
Mais, frère, je me perds moi-même
En haissant ces imbéciles.

Un chaos de pensées, de rêves
A crucifié ma jeune âme.
Ah! qui viendra poser la main
Sur ce cœur qui a trop de mal?

Personne! mon cœur ne connaît
Ni la liberté, ni la joie,
Mais pourtant il bat comme un fou
A l’écho des sanglots du peuple.

Oui, frère, je pleure en secret
Sur la triste tombe du peuple.
Dis-moi, que puis-je vénérer
En ce monde inerte et perfide?

Je n’entends rien, rien ne répond
Aux appels nobles et sincères.
Et ton âme, mon frère est sourde
Aux voix de Dieux, aux pleurs du peuple.

The monument of Hristo Botev in Kalofer

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About Violet Alex

Violet Alex
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