I care not, shall I see my dear
Own land before I die, or no,
Nor who forgets me, buried here
In desert wastes of alien snow;
Though all forget me - better so.
A slave from my first bitter years,
Most surely I shall die a slave
Ungraced of any kinsmen's tears;
And carry with me to my grave
Everything; and leave no trace,
No little mark to keep my place
In the dear lost Ukraina
Which is not ours, though our land.
And none shall ever understand;
No father to his son shall say: -
Kneel down, and fold your hands, and pray;
He died for our Ukraina.
I care no longer if the child
Shall pray for me, or pass me by.
One only thing I cannot bear:
To know my land, that was beguiled
Into a death-trap with a lie,
Trampled and ruined and defiled . . .
Ah, but I care, dear God; I care!
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