Spring of mine, O spring of mine so white,
as yet unlived, as yet unfeasted,
alone in visions vague yet dreamt of,
how low above the poplars do you skim,
yet without pausing in your flight.
Spring of mine, O spring of mine so white!
I know you'll come with rain and hurricanes,
stormy and terrible, fiery, riotous.
To bring back hopes in thousands, wash out bleeding wounds.
How loud the birds will sing then in the cornfields,
how merrily will soar up to the heav'ns,
how people will enjoy their work,
how lovingly as brothers will they live.
Spring of mine... O spring of mine so white!
O once again but let me see your soaring
and giving life to squares so desolate,
O once again but let me die then on your barricades!
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Comments about this poem (Spring by Nikola Vaptsarov )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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