Translated by Shashi Martynova
Mourner
— Mourner, mourner, clad in black, what tidings do you bring? — The triumphs of war the commander in chief came out to praise and sing.
— Why not cast off that dreary guise and hang it on a nail? — Maps may deceive—no trust in lines. Belief would be of no avail.
— Mourner, then, does this portend that our army’s fate is grim? — Hush, you fool! A careless sigh may now cost life and limb.
— So will your task be done at last in a day of a mourner's bread? — A lifetime’s work—till sweat runs dry. And a few lives ahead.
— How can one flee this wretched fate? Speak now, pray, and don’t cry. — A mourner’s blood is shallow in me. A butcher’s runs sevenfold high.