Yevshan-potion. Mykola Voronyi
Mykola Voronyi
Evshan-zillia
In our ancient chronicles
There is one story,
That touches the heart
The most sacred feelings.
It does not shine with the beauty
Of loud and picturesque words,
Does not praise heroes
But their warlike deeds.
No, that old story speaks of something else.
Between the lines of the words lies
A kind of prophecy.
And it nourishes hope,
A certain faith in ideals
To those who have already spoiled and neglected their native land...
* *
He lived in Kiev in captivity
The Khan's son, a small boy,
The Polovtsian Khan's most beloved child.
Monomakh, Prince Vladimir,
Took him during a campaign
With a yasir as a prisoner and then
He kept him with him for his beauty.
He surrounded him with honors
And luxuries befitting him —
And the boy lived
And safely, and profitably.
Time passed, and he gradually began
To forget his native steppe,
To consider the strange land, strange customs
As his own.
But the khan did not live like that
Without his beloved child.
It is hard to live out his life
Under the weight of loneliness.
He became sad, sad...
He does not eat during the day, and in the middle of the night
He cries, poor man, and sighs,
His eyes do not know sleep.
From no one he has
Neither comfort nor advice.
The whole world seems to him
Without beauty and without charm.
He calls the hawk to him
And such a speech he gives,
That as if with blood from his heart
Word after word flows:
"Listen, old man, you soar
Like a bright falcon in the clouds,
Like a gray wolf in the field,
You understand magic.
You have a gift from God from heaven
To foretell people's fate,
By your word, by your song
To attract everyone to yourself.
You go to the Russian land -
The country of our enemies,
Find my son there,
My beloved child.
Tell me how I fight
For him both days and nights,
How long ago
My eyes have been looking at him from there.
Sing him a song
Our, native, Polovtsian,
About our free life,
Our brave character.
And if all that doesn't help,
Give him evshana-potion,
So that, smelling it, he would remember
The Steppe of free privilege".
And the minstrel set off on his journey.
He walks for three days and three nights,
On the fourth day he arrives
In the city of Kiev at midnight.
He stealthily passed, like a thief,
He went to his master's son
And began to speak softly
The language of a betrayed khan.
Flattery, persuading...
But his words do not impress the boy, for
He has already forgotten both his father and his family.
And the minstrel struck the strings!
Like the wind in bad weather,
A ceaseless song roared forth—
The song of the free people.
About glorious events—
Those Polovtsian events,
About knightly campaigns—
Those campaigns of youth!
Like a raging blizzard,
Like Perun's terrible thunder,
So the strings roared and groaned
And that song of the gray-haired woodwind!
But now it is already quieting
The strong chordal rattle
And instead of it we hear
A folk song, a lullaby.
Then the woodwind sings softly
The song that sang
A mother to her son,
When she rocked him as a little one.
Like a gentle prayer,
The song resounds loudly.
Here is its last chord
In the darkness of the night it drowns...
But this song is tender, dear,
Nor the first, strong, powerful,
Did not strike the youthful heart,—
He sits mute, indifferent.
And the old woman bent her head on her chest — Where there is emptiness instead of a heart, There will be no salvation! But no! There is still hope Here, on her chest in a shroud! And with trembling hands He tears his shirt, From his chest He takes off That evshan, the magic potion, And gives the young man to smell That top of the plant. What happened to the young man all of a sudden? The nephew's face turned pale, He trembled, his eyes flashed And he jumped to his feet. His native steppe — wide, free, Magnificently colored and flowery — Suddenly stood before his eyes, And with him the unfortunate father! Will, my beloved Will! Native tents, native people...
All this flashed by together,
The heart clenched, the chest tightened.
"It is better in the native land, dear
To lie down, to die,
Than in a foreign, hostile land
To live in glory and honor!" —
So he shouted, and on the road
Into the dark and beautiful night
They both set off,
Bypassing the guard.
They tirelessly passed through bayraks and ravines —
To the native steppe, to the cheerful land
They hurried, hurried.
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