“Well, have you rested up?” “Onward!” It’s time, friends, for the road!
Konetspolsky’s already waiting somewhere, time to act,
not let our hair go gray.”
The otaman shouted to the grove: “To your horses, Cossacks,
to your horses!”
His shout swept through the forest and passed from wagon to wagon,
gushing down like rainy dew, somewhere far off it tumbled down
in thunder...
The rebels bustled, came out – making the forest rustle in the treetops.
He who rides first, flies like a falcon,
the newly chosen otaman on a swift black horse.
A mass of rebels behind him! — here and there they set up ranks,
marching in line, pushing forward, if you look back
– you can’t see the end:
one behind the other – all on horseback, one behind the other, singing.
Far off in the distance a supply column bent like a snake along the road.
The throng arose for a righteous cause, for honor, and for their land.
The Poles are billeted – there’s no order or way to get through.
Ukraine will suffer, until the masses strike.
Until they thrash the Poles and send them to the netherworld!
They’ll violently rock them like Triasylo once did in Korsun!
The rebels ride on and laugh – here and there they set up ranks,
one after the other — all on horseback, one after the other,
continuing to sing.
Suddenly the otaman halts. Far off above the road
something can be seen.
It can be seen, it’s growing, becoming restive,
like a poppy in the field before dawn.
“Brothers!” the otaman speaks. “We’ve sat out a storm in the forest;
put away your pipes – and we’ll still greet this storm in the open field.
You move aside right away. And you go into that ravine.
We’ll pitch camp here. Let the supply column get closer.”
Just as he said it, it was done, and the poppies
keep blooming, approaching,
coming closer and spreading, increasing the stamping of hooves...
They stopped. They veiled themselves with smoke –
and aim at the supply column again.
The otaman himself took a shot – and a Pole teetered on his horse.
Then they took a shot together – after which, yet two more fell.
Oh, how the Poles move forward, how they fling themselves like beasts,
you can’t see the ground! they’ll sweep you up, then knock you down.
But the rebels didn’t waste time, they circled behind,
running off to the side,
then those whom the valley was hiding came out to attack.
Come on, stand together, Poles, forget all the roads back!
One storm cloud covered another, as though the sun
hadn’t risen since night.
And here the rifles grew silent: they rose up to slash each other, to fight.
The earth’s throat grew hoarse, the ground became
bloodstained and scorched black.
And only their sabers were clashing, and their eyes were like a wolf’s.
A shout or a neigh would spurt out and get lost in the din.
The savagery lasted for a while, until everyone was hacked to pieces.
The sabers fell from their hands. “Maybe this is enough?”
The otaman halted.
In silence they gathered together, wiping their sabers
and breathing heavily.
In silence the flowering field lay flat all around.
Enough! It’s apparently as it ought to be. We’ve put the accursed nobles
to shameful sleep. They will not rise. They will not return.
Bury your men.
Just as he said it, it was done. They heaped a high mound
in the field, they buried their brothers in it, forever.
The rebels set off and left – from far away you can see the burial mound.
The evening above it was inconsolable and the burial cloth over it fresh.
1921