In Winter (In the year 1914) [Continued] pg. 65

                                (In the year 1914)

                For the little child already lies blue

                Lifeless and cold like the hard ice

                Your consolation, [your] only happiness

                The winter cold has withered like a flower

O, poor mother, though spring will return

To our orchards, to our fields

But your child no one will bring back to life

And your heartfelt sorrow will not pass

Galicia!

With a white shroud the field is covered
And in the little house pain spreads

A poplar murmurs sorrowfully over the hut

What did they have to harvest from the show-covered fields[1]

The child looks at the death bed

[His] mother is dying a horrible death

And the storm, with a roar, drowns out the moans

And only the funeral bell is heard

There again a light shimmers in the distance

The candle burns, thrust into the palm

They cry for the little child, tenderly they take leave

Of the mother, who in the waltz has already laid down his arms

In course shirts, with bare feet

They stand at the headboard with plaintive tears

The mother is dead, the father is dying

What will become of them? Not even the lilacs are blooming

The crosses are multiplying at the church

They call upon God, people flow with tears

And the child cries out, “I am an orphan

Toil has conquered my parents

Give a hand, friends[2], countrymen

For I suffer pain, hunger is tormenting [me]

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[1] Literally “poured over [with snow]”

[2] The word translated as “friends” is more Ukrainian than Polish