TIRED, LEANING ON THE HILLS
by Volodymyr Svidzinsky, 1929
Tired, leaning on the hills,
The day slept and slept. It seemed
Blue skies would never again stretch
Over the fields. Lazy, without a care
I, too, curled up and surrendered to the power of sleep.
I awoke -- where did my bright day go?
A light mist spread from the West,
Clinging to the fields like wings.
The sun is buried. The trees are silent.
The cold has closed the tulips.
Even the bees, who greeted the infant day
With so much fuss, are still.