Nedohir’s Monologue

A literary work conveying the atmosphere of the степь, the fate of a human life, and a deep connection to the native land.

The day was fading,
The sun, exhausted,
Was quickly sinking down to rest,
The horizon dimmed,
And the iron grew dull,
Freshly taken from the blacksmith’s fire.

In the heavy hush of evening,
The horses neighed in sorrow,
And the willow grieved above the water.
Old Nedohir lay weak,
The plow he left behind
Had hardened with reddish rust.

The old woman wept,
Neighbors gathered,
Standing in grief beside the bench.
A farmer was dying,
His pale forehead
Covered with beads of sweat.

His lips barely moved,
Whispering faintly,
His eyelids trembling ever so slightly:
— Though I leave you now,
I do not say farewell,
In this land I will remain forever.

I left the land of Poltava,
So dear to my heart,
Following a fragile hope.
I was young and strong…
But the dry winds of the southern steppes
Drained my strength too soon.

Not much remains for me
Before the end,
Soon you will lay me to rest…

He opened his hand —
An acorn gleamed in his palm,
As if cast from solid bronze…

— I have only one request,
Perhaps my last in this world:
Together with my ashes,
Place into my coffin
This talisman so dear to me.

I found it once,
Long, long ago,
There, by the Vorskla, in our grove,
And now to part with it
Would not be right…
And with these words, Nedohir fell silent.

The day had burned away.
The fire of sunset faded.
Only the stars shimmered above…
And even they, at times,
Would break loose
And fall into the darkness…

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