Вижте няколко превода на Ботев на английски!

Ако имате познати чужденци и желаете да им разкажете да него, ето няколко добри превода на негови стихотворения на английски език:


My Prayer - Poem by Hristo Botev

O my God, my righteous God.
Not you, in heaven apart,
but you, who are within me, God -
within my soul and heart…

Not you, to whom the holy priests
and monks must genuflect
and all of orthodoxy's beasts
light tapers in respect;
not you, who once created man
and woman from the dirt,
then allowed their human clan
to be as slaves on earth;
not you, who have anointed kings,
popes, patriarchs and others,
and abandoned to their suffering
all the poor, my brothers;
not you, who but instruct the slave
by calm and prayer to cope
and then sustain him to the grave
upon his empty hopes;
not you, the true God of the cruel,
the liers and the sham,
not you, the idol of the fools
and the enemies of man.
But you, God of the human mind,
defender of the slave;
it soon shall be that all mankind
shall celebrate your day.
O God, inspire in every man
a love of liberty
that they may fight as best they can
the people' enemies.
Make powerful this hand of mine
for the rising of the slaves;
I'll join them at the battle-line
that I may find my grave.
Do not let this stormy heart
grow cold in foreign lands,
let not my voice in silence pass
as if through desert sands. 

A Cloud Of Darkness Has Appeared - Poem by Hristo Botev

A cloud of darkness has appeared
from the mountains and the forest:
does it mean a gentle drizzle
or a terrifying tempest?
Ah, granddad, these are troubled times.
Hard the dragging of the plough'
and behind the seeds you soul:
hail from your eyes, sweat from your brow.
Tell me, granddad, why you weep
upon this long, black furrow-lines.
Do you fear the cloud of darkness
or do your little children die?
Tell me, granddad - I remember
how you once walked brave and proud.
Granny Stoyna was alive then -
she was singing while you ploughed.
And - remember? - when I passed
through the forest, but last year,
you were seated among heroes,
a father to them, with your beard.
What a real man you were then.
Now you're weeping - granddad, why?
Is it that your heart grows old
or that your flag no longer flies.
'Ah, my son, why you ask?
Listen to the raven croak…
But when you go down to the village
you'll find out why the tears choke
an aged chieftain, following his plough.
For the village gathers all around,
in the square, to graze upon
my children, my young men.
Impaled on rows of poles
and stakes, you'll there discover
the heads of both of my sons
who banded up to kill each other.
Two brothers were opposing leaders,
two sons on whom I could depend:
they quarreled over who would now
be leader of their father's men.
As if the mountains were to small,
this band of rivalry to keep.
So today their heads stick up
and everyone who passes weeps.
God - strike me with thunderbolt.
Wind - like dust - then scatter me.
Not to look upon small children
and mothers in their misery
gathering round the stakes to wail -
raising hands to clasp their heads,
suffering in their deep despair,
barefoot, in rags, and filled with dread…'
Large raindrops have begun to fall,
ducks and geese fly up and call.
A terrifying tempest howls -
this is no gentle drizzle now.
Everyone through the village races,
but granddad won't unhitch the traces,
- Granddad, come along. Be fast.
- Wait, am help me die at last. 

Hadji Dimiter - Poem by Hristo Botev

He lives, still he lives! In the mountain fast,
soaked in blood, he lies and groans,
a rebel, wounded in the chest,
a rebel, young and with a manly strength.

To one side he has thrown a gun,
to the other a sword in broken pieces,
his head rolls, his eyes are dulled,
his mouth describes the universe with curses.

The rebel lies, and in the sky
there burns a motionless and angry sun;
a harvester sings in field nearby,
and faster still his lifeblood runs.

It's harvest now. Slave girls - chant
your songs of grief. And you, sun, shine
upon this land of slaves. My heart
be hushed. One rebel more will die

He who falls while fighting to be free
can never die: for him the sky
and earth, the trees and beasts shall keen,
to him the minstrel's song shall rise…

By day he's shaded by an eagle,
a wolf licks gently at his wounds,
above, a falcon - bird of rebels -
tends to this rebel as a brother would.

The moon comes out and day grows dim,
on heaven's vault the stars now throng,
the forest rustles, quiet stirs the wind,
the mountains sing an outlaw song.

Wood-sprites, in their white-hued dress,
fair and beautiful, take up the tune,
hushed their footfall in the grass,
as all about him then sit down.

One sprinkles coolness over him,
another binds his wound with herbs,
a third's quick kisses touch his lips
and softly smiles as he looks up at her.

Where is Karadja? - sister, say.
Where is my faithful company?
Tell me, then bear my soul away -
sister, this is where I want to die.

Enraptured then they all embrace
and heavenwards fly, still singing on
they fly and sing till morning overtakes
their quest to find Karadja's soul…

On the mountainside - as day has dawned -
the rebel lies, his lifeblood runs,
the wolf licks at his bitter wound
and the sun, again, now burns - and burns. 

The Hanging Of Levski - Poem by Hristo Botev

O you, my Mother, my Native Land, 
Why is your cry so sad and heart-rending!
And you, O Raven, accursed bird,
On whose grave croak you of ill impending?

I know, ah I know, you weep, my Mother,
Because you're a slave in bondage lying,
You weep because your sacred voice
Is a helpless voice in a desert crying.

Weep on, weep on! Near Sofia town
A ghastly gallows I have seen standing,
And your own son, Bulgaria,
There with dreadful force is hanging.

The raven gives its grim hoarse croak,
Dogs yelp, wolves howl, the sky is bleak,
Old men in prayers their God invoke,
Women shed tears, the children shriek.

The winter sings its evil song,
Squalls chase the thistles in the plain,
And cold and frost and hopeless tears
Wring and twist your heart with pain.