The volunteers of Shipka traslated by Ann WoodThe Bulgarian history of today has been written by the heroes whose bones lie on Shipka peak, on Tsarevets, on the place where the Pleven panorama rises today, under our feet in the cities of Lovech, Koprivshtitsa, Panagyurishte, Peshtera, Gabrovo, Ruse, Kozloduy, Stara Zagora ... in our whole Motherland.
Regardless of where we are in the world, let us be forever proud that we are Bulgarians, and let us not forget that the price of our freedom today has been paid for by hundreds of thousands of human lives.
A tribute to the memory of those who died for the freedom of Bulgaria and a happy holiday to all of us, my Bulgarian brothers and sisters!
God save Bulgaria!
THE VOLUNTEERS OF SHIPKA
Ivan Vazov, August 11, 1877
Let's wear more shame on our foreheads,
blue from the bull, traces of weight;
let the memory be angry from days of disgrace
to hang like a cloud in our horizon;
let history deny us, the age,
let our name be tragic; let
Belasitsa old and new Batak
in our past, they cast their darkness;
let them point at us with insulting taunts
break shackles and look for shame
on our necks from the yoke of old;
let this freedom be a gift to us!
Let. But we know that in our recent
something new is shining, there is something glorious,
which proudly beats our breasts
and in us he feels strong, great fruits;
because somewhere on the top of the mountain,
that the blue sky supports with the shoulders,
a wild, sensual peak rises,
covered with white bones and bloody moss
of an immortal feat a huge monument;
because there is a memory in the Balkans,
there is one name that lives forever
and in our story, the cat legend is gray,
a name-new, great ancient,
like Thermopylae glorious, boundless,
that answer gives and washes away shame,
and slander breaks the tooth.
Three days the young companies
as the passage is scolded. Forest valleys
they roar in awe.
Terrible attacks! Twelfth-time
dense hordes crawl on the wild cliff, and the bodies cover her, and blood floods her.
Storm after storm! Swarm after swarm!
Suleiman the Madman points to the top again
and shouts: “Run! There are the heavens! ”
And the hordes marched with angry shouts,
and "Allah!" thunderous air burst.
The top responds with another shout: hurray!
And with new rain bullets, stones, and wood;
our companies, sprinkled with blood,
shoot and repel, no signal, no order,
everyone is just looking to be ahead
and breasts heroically to death to expose,
and an enemy more dead to lay.
The rifles echoed. The Turks roar,
Embankments come and fall and die; -
They come like tigers, they flee like sheep, and they growl again; Bulgarians, Eagles
as lions run on a terrible redoubt,
they remember neither heat, nor thirst, nor labor.
The assault is desperate; the resistance is fierce.
They have been fighting for three days now, but no help is coming; out of nowhere, the eye saw no hope, and the brotherly eagles do not snort at them.
Nothing. They will fall, but honestly, without fear -
a handful of Spartans under Xerxes.
The waves are coming; everyone is on the alert!
The last push has already come.
Then Stoletov, our general,
roared loudly: “Young volunteers,
marry Bulgaria with laurel wreaths!
the king trusted in your strength
the passage, the war, and even myself! ”
With these words, the strong companies are proud
heroic enemy hordes await
furious and noisy! Oh, a heroic hour!
The waves find rocks then,
the cartridges are missing, but the wills last,
the bayonet breaks - the chest remains
and the sweet joy to die to death
before the whole universe, on this glorious mouth,
with one heroic death and one victory.
"All of Bulgaria is watching now; this peak is high: it will see us
if they ran: let's die better! ”
No more weapons! There is a hecatomb!
Every tree is a sword; every stone is a bomb,
everything a blow, every soul aflame.
Stones and trees disappeared there.
"Grab the bodies!" someone screamed, and corpses of the dead snorted
kat demons black over black swarm,
overthrow, pile up as alive again!
And the Turks tremble, never saw again
to fight alive and dead at once,
and the air is split with a demonic cry.
The fight turns to death, and the bayonet,
our heroes, are as hard as rocks
iron meet with his iron breast
and throw themselves into the fierce slaughter with songs
when they see that they are dying already…
But waves newer than hordes of savages
swallow, immerse the eagle heroically…
One more moment - the cherished hill will fall.
Suddenly Radetsky arrived with a bang.
Even today, the Balkans, as soon as a storm strikes,
remembers that stormy day makes noise and forwards
his fame is as wonderful as any ec
from precipice to the precipice and from century to century!
It can be an image with a flower and nature.
Poetry by Ann Wood
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Written on 2021-03-03 at 11:07
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