Grigore Vieru: A Letter From Bassarabia Poem by Paul Abucean

I know I hurt you when I stated,
With words so thoughtless and offhand,
That you had robbed me of my language
And my provisions and my land.

In that, the age of sheer delusion,
The very teachers lied to me
That you were not at all my brother,
But my unyielding enemy.

Across the Pruth, the cruel border
Which comes between myself and you,
From Bassarabia, my brother,
I send my longing, deep and true.

The Russian tongue, I deemed my fortune;
A wretched speech - my benefit.
We did not have a crumb of culture,
A bunch of lies was all of it!

I wish to pray for expiation
And my sincere repentance start -
May God forgive me for the slander
With which I hurt your inmost heart.

Across the Pruth, the cruel border
Which comes between myself and you,
From Bassarabia, my brother,
I send my longing, deep and true.

When I found out that we are brothers,
A heedless teardrop from my eyes
Was seized and instantly deported
To faraway Siberian skies.

Out there, in dim and frigid mine pits,
Where teardrop salt is dug as ore,
They keep on digging, digging, digging,
And every pick strike brings out more.

Across the Pruth, the cruel border
Which comes between myself and you,
From Bassarabia, my brother,
I send my longing, deep and true.

(Translated by Paul Abucean)