Taras Shevchenko

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Taras Shevchenko Will and Testament When I die bury me in the middle of the steppe of my Ukraine. So I can seize broad the broadback field and Dnipro, twisting, so I can see and hear it roar, roaring, carrying thieves’ blood to the ocean. Then I’ll toss the fields and mountains and me and burn them all like prayers. I won’t know God till then. Stash me away then stand, split your chains and spatter the soil with blood and fury, having your body back. Now in our vast family, the free one, the new one, don’t forget to remember me in good-willed words, a word unangered, quiet. In the Casemate It’s all the same if I settle in Ukraine or not. If someone finds or forgets me in the desert snow in some other country— doesn’t matter to me. In slavery I grew around strangers and your folks un-cried for. In slavery you cry, die. Everything taken up with you, don’t leave light footprints in this radiant country— on ground that is not yours. And the dad won’t reminisce with the son. Won’t tell the son, pray, pray, for Ukraine was bludgeoned down at some point. I don’t care if the son prays. But it’s not the same to me, as vicious people lull Ukraine to sleep slyly and in a fire, kidnapped, she’s woken up on fire . . . Ah, it’s not all the same to me. April 17–May 19, 1847, St. Petersburg, Russia translated from the Ukrainian by Daniel Moysaenko

Will and Testament

When I die bury me
in the middle of the steppe
of my Ukraine. So I can seize
broad the broadback field and
Dnipro, twisting, so
I can see and hear it roar,
roaring, carrying
thieves’ blood
to the ocean. Then I’ll toss
the fields and mountains and me
and burn them all like prayers.
I won’t know God till then.

Stash me away then stand,
split your chains and spatter
the soil with blood and fury,
having your body back. Now
in our vast family, the free
one, the new one,
don’t forget to remember me
in good-willed words,
a word unangered,
quiet.

In the Casemate

It’s all the same if
I settle in Ukraine or not.
If someone finds or forgets
me in the desert snow
in some other country—
doesn’t matter to me.
In slavery I grew
around strangers
and your folks
un-cried for. In slavery
you cry, die. Everything taken
up with you, don’t leave
light footprints
in this radiant country—
on ground that is not yours.
And the dad won’t reminisce
with the son. Won’t
tell the son, pray, pray,
for Ukraine was bludgeoned
down at some point.
I don’t care if the son prays.
But it’s not the same to me,
as vicious people lull
Ukraine to sleep slyly
and in a fire, kidnapped,
she’s woken up on fire . . . Ah,
it’s not all the same to me.

April 17–May 19, 1847, St. Petersburg, Russia
translated from the Ukrainian by Daniel Moysaenko