A storm has raged all evening and While scraps made of sea spray are patching The ragged seams sewn in the sand I see below from where I stand How wavesí necks break as they go crashing. And I feel pity as they die, A little - and from way up high. I hear their croaks and dying gasps And fury that they didnít make it - Well, if you have to race so fast, Step up a gear, crash through the bars, All to win by a neck, youíll break it. And I feel pity as they die A little - and from way up high.
Oh, fortuneís manes white as a sheet! Still lovelier now death is nearing, The waves fly up on to their feet As trumpets of battle entreat - And break their curved necks as theyíre rearing. And we feel pity as they die, A little - and from way up high.
The breakersí crests are struck by squalls Once more so their foam manes are ruffled; The wave canít jump clear of the wall, The frothing horse then trips and falls, Its legs kicked away in a scuffle. And theyíll feel pity as it dies, A little - and from way up high. Then Iíll be next as from behind Iím forced as if blown by a cyclone Right to the edge while in my mind A fevered feeling tells me Iím Doomed too to break my neck and backbone. And theyíll feel pity as I die, A little - and from way up high. Thus many as the years go by Sit on the shore and safely watch there, Attentively, with eagle eye, How others floundering nearby Break necks and backbones on the rocks there. And they feel pity as they die, A little - and from way up high.
But on the gloomy ocean floor, Where whales inhabit secret hollows, A wave beyond our ken is born To rise up and engulf the shore Till all those who watch it are swallowed.   And Iíll feel pity as they die A little - and from way up high.
© Margaret & Stas Porokhnya. Translation, 2008