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.