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To My Brother

It's difficult to live, my brother,

among such thick-skulled blunderheads;

the fires of my youth are smothered,

my heart is torn to bitter shreds.


I love the land where I was born

and I protect its ancient wealth,

yet when I show these oafs my scorn

I bring destruction to myself.


Dreams of darkness, thoughts of storm,

have nailed my young soul to the cross.

O, who will place a friendly hand

upon my heart in its distress?


No one, no one. Freedom, joy

neither does it recognize;

yet it passionately joins

its answer to a people's cries.


Brother, I shed tears in secret

where anguished people are interred;

but, tell me, what should I respect

upon this dead, insidious earth?


Nothing, nothing. To a frank

and upright voice there's no reply,

and your soul, too, does not react

to the voice of God - a people's cry.


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