As a black bird o’er Rus’ the calamity flies,
Having spread its darksome wings
Oh, the Sit’-river, if you weren’t hidden by ice,
Your stream wouldn’t be water, but blood…
Russes fought there ‘gainst countless foes,
And fell also there - one and all,
Scattering their lives over a snow field
As if under Mara’s flails on a threshing floor.
Impetuous spears are broken down,
Dark red shields are cut all over…
Makers of daring warrior’s glory,
The banners fell down the blood-red snow…
And Yuriy-Knjaz who was in a helmet with roof of gold on,
Who brought men-at-arms together around,
Fell his soul in a ferocious battle -
As a pearl of soul in a gold necklace.
There’s no one on the Sit’-river
Who can wash slashed warriors’ severe wounds.
Only ravens cover by wings
The bodies bound by snow.
Oh, the Sit’-river, grey borderline!
Silent burial mounds of yours
Are still oppressed with sombre thoughts
About that battle and the bitter funeral feast.
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