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Poems from your nation.

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TheodoreFelix View Drop Down
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  Quote TheodoreFelix Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Topic: Poems from your nation.
    Posted: 04-Jun-2005 at 13:20

Post national poems. You can put the verion in your langaueg but make sure it also has the english version.

Pashko Vasa

Albanians, you are killing your brothers, /
Into a hundred factions you are divided, /
Some say I believe in God?, others I in Allah, /
Some say I am Turk, others I am Latin, /
Some I am Greek, others I am Slav, /
But you are brothers, all of you, my hapless people!...
Awaken, Albania, wake from your slumber, /
Let us all, as brothers, swear a common oath /
Not to look to church or mosque for pietism, /

This is a shortened version.

here is the long one;


Oh, poor Albania, bruised from lashes
Who dared push your face in ashes?
Hailed once a woman of noble birth,
Mother you were called by men of this Earth.
Rich you were, to tell the truth.
With lovely girls and handsome youth,
With lots of cattle, gardens, farms
With Latin rifle and other arms
With men of courage and women of cheer
In all the world you had no peer.

When guns boomed like the crack of thunder
Albania's men rushed out of yonder,
And always fought well, till the end came,
And never soiled their name with shame.
When men of Albania pledged to fight,
All of Rumelia shivered with fright,
In fierce battles they fought and died,
With honor their memory inscribed.

But now, Albania, you're a sight of woe
Just like an oak tree brought down low!
All step on you as if you were dead,
And not one kind word to you is said.
Once you dressed well, like a woman high-born,
Today, your fine robes are badly torn,
You've lost your name, your faith, too,
And none is to blame for it but you.

Albanians, you are slaying one another,
Some shout for country, some against sin,
One says I'm Turk, another Latin,
Others Greeks or Slavs profess to be,
Fools! You are brothers can't you see?

Priests and mullas have made you mute
To keep you split and destitute.
Foreigners sit by your fireplace,
Your wives and sisters they disgrace,
And if money comes knocking on your door
The faith of your father you ignore,
You become slaves of alien boors,
Whose race and tongue differ from yours.

Weep, oh your rifles and you who care
Albanians, like birds, are caught in a snare,
Weep with us, you warriors all around,
For Mother Albania, lying on ground;
She has no bread or meat to eat,
Nor fire in the hearth, not light or heat,
Pale of cheek and unrespected,
She lies broken and neglected!
Gather you women, so pretty and spry,
Who know so well to weep and cry.
For she's shorn of honor and forlorn,
She's like a widow whose man is gone,
She's like a mother without a son!

Who has the heart to let cruel death,
Take this brave women, panting for breath?
Can we allow aliens to smother
And trample on our cherished Mother?
No, no! Such shame no one can beat,
Such vile conduct all men forswear!
Let warriors die carrying the banner
Before Albania is lost in this manner

Awake, Albania, it's time to rise
And bind yourselves with brotherly ties;
Look not to church or mosque for pietism,
The faith of Albanians is Albanianism!

From Tivar all the way to Preveze
The sun sends down its light and rays;
It's our land, the land of our ancestors,
To the death we'll defend it from predators
Better to die for it like the man of old,
Than in shame before the Lord!

Look not to the church and mosque for pietism
The faith of the Albanian is Albanianism!

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  Quote Guests Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 15-Oct-2007 at 00:07
This poem is coming from Trkiye :)
 
Stone for a Sling
...i played
games with child friends whose names i forgot
i was the best at grabbing the five stones off the ground
thanks to those five stones in one hand
i could never ever hold a sling to kill birds...

then i saw life-size cartoons of wars,of massacred, of genocide...
of fingerprints crying out for their owners...
of human beings indifferent to human affliction...

now in my room with birds from all over the world
i play hide-and-seek in poems
hoping to shed light into lullabies...
hoping not to be
the stone for a sling.

Yusuf Eradam
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  Quote xi_tujue Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 15-Oct-2007 at 07:22
This is a poem about Ahiska by an unknown man(most likely a Meskheti Turk)


Ahiska Bir gl idi gitti
Bir ehli dil idi gitti
Syleyin Sultan Mahmut'a
Istanbul'un Kilidi Gitti

Ahiska was a rose it is gone
It was something to be loved it is gone
Tell Sultand Mahmut
That the lock of Istanbul has gone


The peom was written after the loss of the region to teh russians

I rather be a nomadic barbarian than a sedentary savage
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  Quote Guests Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 15-Oct-2007 at 07:38

This is a description of Chile from the epic Poem "The Araucana" (La Araucana) of Alonso de Ercilla, written in the 16th century and a classic of the Spanish language. It shows pretty much how ancient Mapuche were and modern Chileans as well.

Chile, frtil provincia y sealada (Chile, fertile province located)

en la regin Antrtica famosa, (in the antartic region, famous)

de remotas naciones respetada (respected by remote nations) 

por fuerte, principal y poderosa; (because it is strong, mainly and powerful)

la gente que produce es tan granada, (the people that produces is so excelent)

tan soberbia, gallarda y belicosa, (proud, couragious and warrying)

que no ha sido por rey jams regida (that it has never ruled by foreign king)

ni a extranjero dominio sometida (or subject to foreign control)

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  Quote Dolphin Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 15-Oct-2007 at 12:33
Where to start...?!
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  Quote Reginmund Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 21-Oct-2007 at 13:50
This is an English translation of an Old Norse poem written down in the 1220s that celebrates a battle which according to historical tradition unified Norway as a kingdom; the naval battle of Hafrsfjord in 872:
 
    "Have the news reached you? -- have you heard
     Of the great fight at Hafersfjord,
     Between our noble king brave Harald
     And King Kjotve rich in gold?
     The foeman came from out the East,
     Keen for the fray as for a feast.
     A gallant sight it was to see
     Their fleet sweep o'er the dark-blue sea:
     Each war-ship, with its threatening throat
     Of dragon fierce or ravenous brute
     Grim gaping from the prow; its wales
     Glittering with burnished shields, like scales
     Its crew of udal men of war,
     Whose snow-white targets shone from far
     And many a mailed spearman stout
     From the West countries round about,
     English and Scotch, a foreign host,
     And swordsmen from the far French coast.
     And as the foemen's ships drew near,
     The dreadful din you well might hear
     Savage berserks roaring mad,
     And champions fierce in wolf-skins clad,
     Howling like wolves; and clanking jar
     Of many a mail-clad man of war.
     Thus the foe came; but our brave king
     Taught them to fly as fast again.
     For when he saw their force come o'er,
     He launched his war-ships from the shore.
     On the deep sea he launched his fleet
     And boldly rowed the foe to meet.
     Fierce was the shock, and loud the clang
     Of shields, until the fierce Haklang,
     The foeman's famous berserk, fell.
     Then from our men burst forth the yell
     Of victory, and the King of Gold
     Could not withstand our Harald bold,
     But fled before his flaky locks
     For shelter to the island rocks.
     All in the bottom of the ships
     The wounded lay, in ghastly heaps;
     Backs up and faces down they lay
     Under the row-seats stowed away;
     And many a warrior's shield, I ween
     Might on the warrior's back be seen,
     To shield him as he fled amain
     From the fierce stone-storm's pelting rain.
     The mountain-folk, as I've heard say,
     Ne'er stopped as they ran from the fray,
     Till they had crossed the Jadar sea,
     And reached their homes -- so keen each soul
     To drown his fright in the mead bowl."


Edited by Reginmund - 21-Oct-2007 at 13:53
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  Quote Aelfgifu Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 21-Oct-2007 at 20:15
These two poems are perhaps the ones most monumental in modern Dutch literature. In my eyes, they describe beautifully the essence of the country. The translation of the first poem is a literal word for word one by me, the translation of the second poem one I found on the internet, a far superior one to what I could have made of it.
 
Please note that one of the reasons these poems are considered two of the ultimate highlights of Dutch poetry ever is because the rhyming scemes of both are absolutely perfect, to the last syllable, a fact sadly lost in translation.
 
Hendrik Marsman (1899-1940)
 
Denkend aan Holland
Thinking of Holland

zie ik breede rivieren
I see wide rivers
 
traag door oneindig
slowly, though endless

laagland gaan,
lowlands move,

rijen ondenkbaar
rows unimaginable

ijle populieren
thin poplars

als hooge pluimen
as high plumes

aan den einder staan;
on the horizan stand;

en in de geweldige
and in the tremendous

ruimte verzonken
space lost

de boerderijen
the farms

verspreid door het land,
spread though the land,

boomgroepen, dorpen,
thickets, villages,

geknotte torens,
stump towers,

kerken en olmen
Churches and elms

in een grootsch verband.
In a superior unity.

de lucht hangt er laag
the air hangs low there

en de zon wordt er langzaam
and the sun is slowly

in grijze veelkleurige
in grey and multicolored

dampen gesmoord,
vapors smothered,

en in alle gewesten
and in all regions

wordt de stem van het water
the voice of the water

met zijn eeuwige rampen
with its ever occurring disasters

gevreesd en gehoord.
is feared and heard.

 

 

De Dapperstraat

by J.C. Bloem (1887-1066)

The Dapperstraat

translated by Sakaama & Atmo, 1997

Natuur is voor tevredenen of legen
En dan: wat is natuur nog in dit land?
een stukje bos, ter grootte van een krant.
Een heuvel met wat villaatjes ertegen.

Geef mij de grauwe, stedelijke wegen.
De in kaden vastgeklonken waterkant,
De wolken, nooit zo schoon dan als ze, omrand
Door zolderramen langs de lucht bewegen.

Alles is veel voor wie niet veel verwacht.
Het leven houdt zijn wonderen verborgen
Tot het ze, opeens, toont in hun hoge staat.

Dit heb ik bij mijzelve overdacht,
Verregend, op een miezerige morgen,
Domweg gelukkig in de Dapperstraat.

Leave nature to those empty or contented
And then: what's left of nature in this land?
A little wood, the size of a postage stamp,
A hill, residences stuck onto it.

Give me the grey urban streets.
The water firmly held between brick moorings,
The clouds, so beautiful when framed
In attic windows, they drift along the sky.

Anything is a lot, when you expect so little
Life keeps its wonders hidden
To suddenly reveal them in a divine state.

I thought about all this,
Soaking wet, one drizzly morning,
Simply happy in the Dapperstraat



Edited by Aelfgifu - 21-Oct-2007 at 20:22

Women hold their councils of war in kitchens: the knives are there, and the cups of coffee, and the towels to dry the tears.
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  Quote Caoimhe Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 01-Nov-2007 at 21:46
Here's two poems from Seamus Heaney, possibly the greatest Irish poet ever, definitely the greatest living. Heaney won the nobel prize for literature in 1995, I think. Anyway these two poems deal with two historic events. The first is about the 1798 Rebellion in Ireland and the battle which broke the back of the Rebel Army. One of the consequences of the Rebellion was the Act of Union between Ireland and Britain, which is what the second poem is about! Seeing as these two poems are based on historic events and this is primarily a history forum I thought them appropriate!LOL

Requiem for the Croppies

The pockets of our greatcoats, full of barley
No kitchens on the run, no striking camp
We moved quick and sudden in our own country.
The priest lay behind ditches with the tramp.
A people, hardly marching on the hike
We found new tactics happening each day:
Wed cut through reins and rider with the pike
And stampede cattle into infantry,
Then retreat through hedges where cavalry must be thrown.
Until, on Vinegar Hill, the fatal conclave.
Terraced thousands died, shaking scythes at cannon.
The hillside blushed, soaked in our broken wave.
They buried us without shroud or coffin
And in August the barley grew up out of the grave.

ACT OF UNION
           I
To-night, a first movement, a pulse
As if the rain in bogland gathered head
To slip and flood: a bog-burst,
A gash breaking open the ferny bed.
Your back is a firm line of eastern coast
And
arms and legs are thrown
Beyond your gradual hills. I caress
The
heaving province where our past has grown.
I am the tall kingdom over your shoulder
That
you would neither cajole nor ignore.
Conquest is a lie. I grow older
Conceding
your half-independant shore
Within whose borders now my legacy
Culminates inexorably.

     II
And I am still imperially
Male, leaving you with pain,
The rending process in the colony,
The battering ram, the boom burst from within.
The act sprouted an obsinate fifth column
Whose
stance is growing unilateral.
His heart beneath your heart is a wardrum
Mustering force. His parasitical
And
ignmorant little fists already
Beat at your borders and I know they're cocked
At me across the water. No treaty
I foresee will salve completely your tracked
And
stretchmarked body, the big pain
That leaves you raw, like opened ground, again

Here's another poem I like by a poet called Gabriel Rosenstock. He wrote in the Irish and translated it to the English himself I believe.

As gach pir Dot

As gach pir Dot scallann an ghrian
Ar Do dhamhsa gan chroch
Taobh dorcha na geala is geal
M osclaonn T Do bhal
alidh ralta, canfaidh iomainn Duit
Is Tusa iadsan
Eala ag eitilt go gasta ar gcl
Conas a shamhlinn barrg Uait
Mura bplascfainn Id raltbhuon?


From each and every pore

From each and every pore look how the sun beams
On Your eternal dance
The dark side of the moon is bright
If You open Your mouth
Stars will escape and chant their hymns for You
You are they
Swiftly swans fly backwards
How can I imagine Your embrace
Without exploding in Your galaxy?
During times of universal deceit, telling the truth becomes a revolutionary act.
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  Quote TheSmokinPot Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 08-Jan-2008 at 02:03
Vladimir Mayakovsky 1922

YOU

You came
determined,
because I was large,
because I was roaring,
but on close inspection
you saw a mere boy.
You seized
and snatched away my heart
and began
to play with it
like a girl with a bouncing ball.
And before this miracle
every woman
was either a lady astounded
or a maiden inquiring:
Love such a fellow?
Why, he'll pounce on you!
She must be a lion tamer,
a girl from the zoo!
But I was triumphant.
I didnt feel it
the yoke!
Oblivious with joy,
I jumped
and leapt about, a bride-happy redskin,
I felt so elated
and light.
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  Quote Paul Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 08-Jan-2008 at 02:54
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought--
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One two! One two!
And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
Light blue touch paper and stand well back

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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 25-Dec-2011 at 19:20
This is my attempt of a translation by a poem by the Bulgarian poet Stefan Tsanev:

Непоправимо стана като смърт.
излишно е по тебе камъни да хвърлям.
Клетвите не могат да убият мъртвия,
молитвите не ще го възкресят.
Учудва ме единствено, че този свят
спокоен още съществува:
не падна слънцето и птиците летят,
и хората ядат и се целуват…
Нима трагедиите ни са толкова нищожни
и нищо
не могат
да променят?
Жестоко е. Безсмислено е. Невъзможно е.
Непоправимо стана като смърт.

It happened irreparable - like  death.
It's useless to throw stones on you
Curses can't kill the dead
Nor prayers will not bring him to life.
I'm only surprised that this world
Still exist in calmness
That the sun didn't fall down, and the birds still fly
And people eat and kiss each other.
Is it so that our tragedies are so unmeaningful
That they can't change anything?
It's cruel. It's senseless. It;s impossible.
It happens urreparable - like a death.




Edited by Don Quixote - 25-Dec-2011 at 19:20
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 20-Feb-2012 at 01:16
I'll offer my translation to a poem by one of my favorite Bulgarian poems - Stefan Tsanev. I'll write the original too, just in case:

Цигулки плачат в съня ми
като боси деца през февруари
боси деца по бели ризки
 протягат тьнките си ръце като струни
 реже ги лъка на зимния вятър.
Цигулки плачат в съня ми обвиняват ме
като деца изоставени.

Violins weep in my dream,
Like barefoot children in February,
Barefoot children with white shirts,
Reaching out with their string-thin arms -
The bow of the winter wind cuts them through.
Violins weep in my dream, accuse me,
Like abandoned children.
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 20-Feb-2012 at 21:22
Stefan Tsanev again, in my attempt for translation:

Душата ми плаче за сняг -
за бяло за чисто душата ми плаче
Видях много земи
видях много свят
видях герои видях палачи.
Душата ми плаче за сняг - чиста диря в снега да оставя.

My soul is crying for snow -
For white, for pure my soul is crying.
I so many lands,
I saw  much of the world
I saw heroes, and I saw murderers...
My soul is crying for snow - a pure sign in the snow to leave....

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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 29-Feb-2012 at 22:21
Emily Dickinson

MINE by the right of the white election!
Mine by the royal seal!
Mine by the sign in the scarlet prison
Bars cannot conceal!
  
Mine, here in vision and in veto!        5
Mine, by the grave’s repeal
Titled, confirmed,—delirious charter!
Mine, while the ages steal!

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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 06-Mar-2012 at 00:38
Lucy Larcom

A STRIP OF BLUE

by: Lucy Larcom (1824-1893)

      DO not own an inch of land,
      But all I see is mine,--
      The orchard and the mowing fields,
      The lawns and gardens fine.
      The winds my tax-collectors are,
      They bring me tithes divine,--
      Wild scents and subtle essences,
      A tribute rare and free;
      And, more magnificent than all,
      My window keeps for me
      A glimpse of blue immensity,--
      A little strip of sea.
       
      Richer am I than he who owns
      Great fleets and argosies;
      I have a share in every ship
      Won by the inland breeze,
      To loiter on yon airy road
      Above the apple-trees.
      I freight them with my untold dreams;
      Each bears my own picked crew;
      And nobler cargoes wait for them
      Than ever India knew,--
      My ships that sail into the East
      Across that outlet blue.
       
      Sometimes they seem like living shapes,--
      The people of the sky,--
      Guests in white raiment coming down
      From heaven, which is close by;
      I call them by familiar names,
      As one by one draws nigh.
      So white, so light, so spirit-like,
      From violet mists they bloom!
      The aching wastes of the unknown
      Are half reclaimed from gloom,
      Since on life's hospitable sea
      All souls find sailing-room.
       
      The ocean grows a weariness
      With nothing else in sight;
      Its east and west, its north and south,
      Spread out from morn till night;
      We miss the warm, caressing shore,
      Its brooding shade and light.
      A part is greater than the whole;
      By hints are mysteries told.
      The fringes of eternity,--
      God's sweeping garment-fold,
      In that bright shred of glittering sea,
      I reach out for and hold.
       
      The sails, like flakes of roseate pearl,
      Float in upon the mist;
      The waves are broken precious stones,--
      Sapphire and amethyst
      Washed from celestial basement walls,
      By suns unsettling kist.
      Out through the utmost gates of space,
      Past where the gray stars drift,
      To the widening Infinite, my soul
      Glides on, a vessel swift,
      Yet loses not her anchorage
      In yonder azure rift.
       
      Here sit I, as a little child;
      The threshold of God's door
      Is that clear band of chrysoprase;
      Now the vast temple floor,
      The blinding glory of the dome
      I bow my head before.
      Thy universe, O God, is home,
      In height or depth, to me;
      Yet here upon thy footstool green
      Content am I to be;
      Glad when is oped unto my need
      Some sea-like glimpse of Thee.

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  Quote TheAlaniDragonRising Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 13-Mar-2012 at 12:34
The Truth of Woman 
by Sir Walter Scott
Woman's faith, and woman's trust -
Write the characters in the dust;
Stamp them on the running stream,
Print them on the moon's pale beam,
And each evanescent letter
Shall be clearer, firmer, better,
And more permanent, I ween,
Than the thing those letters mean.

I have strain'd the spider's thread
'Gainst the promise of a maid;
I have weigh'd a grain of sand
'Gainst her plight of heart and hand;
I told my true love of the token,
How her faith proved light, and her word was broken:
Again her word and truth she plight,
And I believed them again ere night.
What a handsome figure of a dragon. No wonder I fall madly in love with the Alani Dragon now, the avatar, it's a gorgeous dragon picture.
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 14-Mar-2012 at 01:19
This is a Bulgarian rock song from my teen years, in my attempt for translation

The Horseman
Who is riding wildly in the night,
Merged with his horse in a fierce run
Like he is catching the end of the world,
Biting his nervous lips?

Do you hear how the whip is singing,
Cutting fiercely the silence?
Horseman, what are you after,
So you are flying to the end on the world?

You are not going to stop even for a moment...
 "I have nothing to return to
My run is my destiny,
The gamble is my essence.

People sleep their quite nights,
Tucked under their quiet dreams,
I'm spurred by my crazy run
Through the night up to the stars.

People - not that I run away from them,
It's just...I have no time,
Nerves, thoughts, doubts and fears,
I made my saddle out of them.

And I fly toward my horizon,
And I fly toward my sand towers,
I exchanged my past for a horse,
And for me this is the only choice".



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Tsar
Tsar

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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 14-Mar-2012 at 13:14
Another song from the same group - it's great poetry as well as a song, that's why I'm posting it's lyrics here.

Hamlet

Do you want to play on me? You behave like you know all little holes of my mind and heart.
You want to rake away the hidden sound of my secret, to play me from the lowest to my highest note.
No.
Whatever instrument you take me for, you can take me out of tune,
but not play on me.

Oh, in such a night only a train passes along,
Like a last sentinel.
One last bell, and nothing else.
Now I can tell you about it.

Arguing with him young memory,
A peer of every youth,
One confused and modern Hamlet
Crosses the square this night.

Oh, still walks Hamlet in the darkness,
Shivering from the cold
With blue jeans and a thin coat,
He is still waiting for his sign.

Across the boulevards he stares,
And in the window of the stranger,
There is still a hope awake
That someone will open the door for him.

Where, boy, are you going now, and bother us in our sleep?
Do you think that Hamlet is still alive, so medievally impossible?
Do you think that Hamlet is still alive and is still in anguish
To be or not to be - medievally impossible.
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