by Pavlo Tychyna
Source: http://www.multimania.com/mazepa99/ENG/UPOETS/TYCH-P.HTM, POEZIIA IEVROPY V TRIOKH TOMAKH. Poetry of Europe in three volumes. Europäische Lyrik in drei Bänden. Poésie d'Europe en trois tomes. Tom trietii. Poeziia SSSR. Volume Three. Poetry of the USSR. Dritter Band. Dichtung der UdSSR. Tome troisième. La poésie de l'U.R.S.S. Moskva, Progress, 1977
Translated: Walter May;
HTML Markup: For marxists.org in February, 2002.
Three sons arrived to see their old mother,
three brothers, but strangers to one another.
The first was for the poor,
the second was for the lords,
the third, with too much energy blessed,
was a bandit, nothing less.
"My dear," said the eldest, bright-blue-eyed,
"how boundless is the world, how wide!
Need stands not at our door alone,
not only we are poor, -
there's suffering beyond the ocean,
the cursed rich rob men and nations!"
"Mother mine," said the middle son, dark-eyed,
"why think about those on the other side?
The earth shares with us its bounty,
we've bread, coal, hemp in plenty.
Let him hang, that devil,
that cursed rebel!"
"Old Lady," said the youngest son, dark-browed,
"drive them both from your home,
they must not be allowed
to anger me. Let all take heed:
My good strong fist is all I need.
To carouse with the gang is a happy game,
then, rich our poor, it's all the same!"
The first son's sabre flashed,
the second son's sabre slashed,
the third son drew his blade...
"Oh, my son, my poor little lad!"
The bandit lay there dead.
The others fought on, fierce and sharp,
and no one could tear them apart.