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I.
From Galichnik to Reka sighs and shrieks of sorrow rise;
What dire disaster hounds
The men and women thus to waken Echo with their cries?
What New-found ill abounds?
Have the hailstorm's sharp stones shattered the field
of standing wheat?
Have locusts stripped the fields?
Has the Sultan sent hard-hearted taxmen early for receipt
Of their most bitter yield?
No, the sharp stones have not shattered the field of standing
wheat;
Nor locusts stripped the fields;
Nor the Sultan sent hard-hearted taxmen early for receipt
Of their most bitter yield.
Fallen is the mighty Kuzman at wild Geg's hands;
The sturdy Sirdar's slain.
Now brigands bold will hold our mountains, ravaging our
lands,
And none shall bar their way.
Peasants, Demeter's attendants, spread the dreadful word,
The word of dire despair;
And wailing loud and moaning low in horror when they
heard,
The woman tore their hair.
It rose and swelled and growing great, flew fast among
the folk,
Like Boreas, swift of wing,
In every village, every home the fearful whispers spoke
The word of woeful ring.
Amongst the windows and the poor salt tears in tribute
flood,
Among the maidens too;
Like man who have been struck by lightning all the peasants
stood
Who heard the mournful news.
II.
Once, in Spring, a pensive woman paused before her door,
Lit by the sinking sun.
Her elbows rested on her knees and cradled in her arms
she bore
A coldly gleaming gun.
She is in her middle years, a buxom fine-formed woman,
Soldier-strong in build,
And well-proportioned, like a carving of an Amazon -
Ay, she is Beauty's child.
Her beauty, undiminished by the passing years, still reigns
In her fresh shining colour;
The flow of youthful sap has not been coarsened in her
veins.
This is the wretched Neda.
This is Kuzman's worthy wretched mother; she who knows
Sorrows where no hope gleams.
Her eyes are fixed upon the ground; she contemplates
her woes
And dreams the darkest dreams.
The props supporting her poor house, it seems to her,
lean low,
Creak, crumbling in the night,
Tumble till but one solitary, sturdy beam stands now
Erect in single might.
Yet even after it the fiery, fierce-eyed serpents lust,
Crushing it to the ground,
Crashing the whole house down, and there, beneath its
drifting dust,
A fitting grave have found.
In disgust she tries to brush aside these dreams that
gnaw,
To banish these black thoughts;
But still tormenting images return and take by storm
Her mind, dream-caught.
Her frowning forehead rises as faint rustling footsteps
pass -
This must be her son! -
Only to wilt again in woe, a stalk of withered grass
-
'Tis not the awaited one.
And thus in silence everyone passed by with baited breath;
Indeed there was no one
To muster up the courage, tell her of the tragic death
Of Kuzman, her one son.
He was the soul of honour and his mother's only stay.
He was her first-born child.
The terror of the Harpy he, who hungrily would prey
Upon the Albanian wild.
Fondly his mother places fresh-drawn water on the fire,
Such as she always keeps
To bathe her battle-weary son and wash away the mire
-
While he in silence sleeps.
She hopes, poor soul, to make him welcome home when once
again
His clean-limbed horse frisks there.
The mighty tsar of all these shadowy mountains, he is
then
Three times more dear to her.
Time and again had Kuzman harried the mountain robbers
bold
Who everywhere robbed rudely,
Then oft the victorious soul of courage with his comrades
rode
Home to his village proudly.
III.
But suddenly outside the house the sound of steps is heard,
A sound subdued and low.
Four Albanians in mourning with their bowed heads bared
Descent the village road.
Dark with sweat they bear their burden to the very doors,
The precious body they bear,
While all the village folk, dumbfounded, gathered round
the corpse
In stricken silence stare.
Wild the weeping, loud the wailing rising all around,
As if a nation cursed
Were met together there to mourn the dearest thing they
owned
And that same hour had lost.
By Kuzman's corpse his restless horse stands sadly whinnying
With precious blood still stained,
Stamps on the ground, while with a chill his mane is
shivering
For his master and his friend.
His mother hesitates a moment, imperceptibly;
She knows ill news is nigh
From such sad sounds; unsteadily she hurries out to see,
Then gives a piercing cry
Like a lioness by huntsman haughtily pursued
To seize her womb's first fruit -
A sight that draws tears from all eyes, the firmest cheek
is dewed,
And pity knows no bounds.
Throughout the village still it spreads, that sound of
misery
And Neda now unties
The sable kerchief from her head and lets her hair fall
free
While louder sound her cries.
"Peasants! Faint-hearted people, from my courtyard get
you gone!"
Her furious rage begins.
"I would look upon him, so be silent everyone,
And look to your own sins.
"My sobbing, these my tears of ice that flow and my cold
cries
Are tribute and libation.
'Tis for your daughters and your brides that tears should
fill your eyes
Who now have no salvation.
"For what hope can the passing days now bring you in their
train?
Kuzman has passed away,
He who cherished all of you and this, his dear domain,
As the apple of his eye."
The mother's shirll cry shook the people to the very core.
Straightway they made her room -
A maenad wild with grief she was flying hair who bore
Down on her dead son,
Weeping, she pressed his cold head to her breast, like
ivy clinging
Round a young maple tree,
Embracing it and gaining succour, from its strong trunk
drinking.
And there arose a deep
Weeping and wailing from her heart that filled the very
air.
The women now drew near
The sorry creature, whispering in aching sorrow words
Of comfort in her ear.
Like a flock of swallows they console her and her persuade
From that dear corpse to part.
Who can listen to a woman's sweet-toned voice unswayed?
Who is so deathly hard?
Bareheaded, the Albanians respectfully drew round
With folded arms; and here
The eldest one, advancing with his eyes cast on the ground,
Whispers in voice sincere:
"Every day were you to weep for him you would have cause,
Good mother, yet be strong.
A giant you have lost indeed, but those to come will
laud
Your son's brave deeds in song.
"Ay, mother, for by Ares' servants honoured shall they
be,
His feats of far renown.
And all across the world by minstrels honoured shall
you be
In singing accents warm.
"Yet, if you would listen to me, staunch your choking
tears,
Of everything I'll tell
All that I know; heroic feats are holy things to hear."
All paused and silence fell........................................
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