Copyright © 2004-2013


by V. Zabashtynskyj


The suffering mother slowly sauntered
Into the field of ripening grain
Nestling her child against her bosom
She fell by the roadside totally drained.

The young son, straw-thin arms outstretched,
Begs for bread from his suffering mother
But the desperate pleas of the young fledgling
Fall on deaf ears of the pain-stricken mother.
Famine-mongers, famine-mongers.

Mother is lying, eyes stare at the heavens
She's quiet, she's lifeless (extinguished) - there by her child
Wake up, O. mother, wake up this minute
Your green rye's been ripe now for a while...
Famine-mongers, famine-mongers.

Famine-mongers, famine-mongers
You cleaned out the cellar to the last grain
To the last grain, you cleaned out the cellar
Took the last grain from mother and child
From Ukraine.


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