Decrepit, her teeth long gone with her mouth bare,
A scroll of years on her horns marks the weights she bears.
Rough herders whip her with cruel disdain,
On the grazing fields, where she feels only pain.
Rampant mice quietly scratching in sheds
Her heart has been deaf to clamour for years,
She thinks sorrow thoughts, her eyes filled with grief,
Of a white-legged calf, lost to her brief.
They robbed her, the mother, of a son to embrace,
The first joy she knew, left just fleeting trace —
All of the pole beneath aspen’s shade,
where the breeze stirred his skin, and her memories fade.
Soon, at the buckwheat threshing, her fate will unfold,
A noose will be tied, her son’s story retold.
Led to the slaughter, no mercy in sight,
Her wretched life will wither on a silent night.
Pitifully, gravely and dolefully
Horns of hers will sink into earth
Yet she still dreams of green meadows
And snow-white groves of the north…
Дряхлая, выпали зубы,
Свиток годов на рогах.
Бил ее выгонщик грубый
На перегонных полях.
Сердце не ласково к шуму,
Мыши скребут в уголке.
Думает грустную думу
О белоногом телке.
Не дали матери сына,
Первая радость не прок.
И на колу под осиной
Шкуру трепал ветерок.
Скоро на гречневом свее,
С той же сыновней судьбой,
Свяжут ей петлю на шее
И поведут на убой.
Жалобно, грустно и тоще
В землю вопьются рога…
Снится ей белая роща
И травяные луга.