It smells of burning. For four weeks

The dry peat bog has been burning.

The birds have not even sung today,

And the aspen has stopped quaking.

The sun has become God’s displeasure,

Rain has not sprinkled the fields since Easter.

A one-legged stranger came along

And all alone in the courtyard he said:

“Fearful times are drawing near. Soon

Fresh graves will be everywhere.

There will be famine, earthquakes, widespread death,

And the eclipse of the sun and the moon.

But the enemy will not divide

Our land at will, for himself:

The Mother of God will spread her white mantle

Over this enormous grief.”

The sweet smell of juniper

flies from the burning woods.

Soldiers’ wives are wailing for the boys,

The widow’s lament keens over the countryside.

The public prayers were not in vain,

The earth was yearning for rain!

Warm red liquid sprinkled

The trampled fields.

Low, low hangs the empty sky

And a praying voice quietly intones:

“They are wounding your sacred body,

They are casting lots for your robes.”