Цар Стангра - Опълченците на Шипка

Ivan Minchov Vazov (Иван Минчов Вазов; 9 July[27 June]1850- 22 September 1921) was a Bulgarian poet, novelist and playwright, often referred to as "the Patriarch of Bulgarian literature".He was born in Sopot, a town in the Rose Valley of Bulgaria (then part of the Ottoman Empire). The works of Ivan Vazov reveal two historical epochs - the Bulgarian Renaissance and the Post-Liberation(from Ottoman Empire rule) epoch. Ivan Vazov holds the highest honorary title of the Bulgarian Academy of Sciences-Academician.He acted as Education and People Enlightenment Minister from September 7, 1897, until January 30, 1899, representing the People's Party.
[Lyrics are a poem of Ivan Vazov, English Translation]
Let us carry yet the shame upon our brows,
bruises from the whip, marks of the misery,
let memories bitter from days of disgrace
remain forever in our gaze.
let us be denied by history, the epoch,
let our name be tragic;so be it!
Old Belasica and new Batak,
in our past throw their black;
let people point to us with mocking laughter
the broken shackles and stinging wounds
on our necks still lie from the yoke old;
let this freedom be a gift!
So be it. But we know that in our present
glows something new, is something wonderful,
that quickens the hearts within our breasts in pride,
inspires in us feelings great,deeds tremendous;
because there, atop the mountain
which keeps the blue skies upon its shoulders
rises a wild, terrific peak,
covered with white bones and bloody moss
for an immortal deed memorial tremendous;
because in the Balkan there is one memory,
there is something, which lives
and in our history like a legend glows,
one name new,big and momentous
like Termopili glorious,borderless,
which gives an answer and washes away the shame,
and the lie’s tooth breaks.
Oh,Shipka!
Three days the young battalions
the passage defend.The forest’s valleys
anxiously repeat the battle’s cry.
Assaults horrific! For the twelfth time
thick hordes crawl the wild cliff
covered by bodies, swamped by blood.
Storm after storm! Swarm after swarm!
Suleiman madly points to the top
and screams:“Run! There are the heathens!”
and the hordes set off with angry cries,
and a thunderous“Allah!” the skies breaks.
The top answers with a different shout: hurrah!
And with a new rain of bullets, stones and tree;
our battalions, splattered with blood,
fire and push back,without a signal, without order,
every man only tries to be ahead,
and breast heroic to death to display,
and one more enemy dead to lay.
Guns echo. The Turks scream,
more come, and fall, and die;-
They come like tigers,run like sheep
and again return,Bulgarians,eagles
like lions run on the forbidding redoubt,
feel neither heat,nor thirst,nor hardship.
The assault is desperate,the resistance is fierce.
Three days they have fought,but help does not come,
there is no hope to be seen
and brotherly eagles do not fly towards them.
No matter.They will fall,but honestly, with no fear -
like a handful of Spartans under Xerxes’s scum.
The armies come;all are on alert!
The last stand has come.
Then Stoletov, our General brave,
roars:“Young defenders,
crown Bulgaria with laurel garlands!
To your strength the King has entrusted
the passage,the war,even himself!”
With these strong words the proud battalions
await courageously the Turkish hordes
frenzied and tumultuous! Oh,heroic hour!
The waves find cliffs then,
there are no more bullets,but the will endures,
the shield breaks-the chests remain,
and the sweet joy of their shared death
in front of the whole world, on this glorious ridge,
with one death heroic and one victory.
“The whole of Bulgaria now looks upon us,
this peak is high:She will see us,
if we are to run:better to die!”
There are no more weapons! But there is nature!
Every tree is a sword,every stone-a bomb,
every object-a blow,every soul-a flame.
But stone and tree disappeared there.
“Seize the bodies!”someone screamed
and bodies dead soared
like demons black over black hordes,
tumbling,fighting as if again alive!
And the Turks tremble,having never seen
together to fight both dead and alive,
and the heavens split with their demonic cry.
The battle turns to death and to blade,
Our heroes,like hard rocks
the iron meet with iron breasts
and throw themselves with song into the carnage horrific,
even as they see they are to die yet…
But new waves of hordes savage
swallow,sink the flocks heroic…
A moment more and the glorious hill shall fall.
Suddenly,Radezki arrives with thunder.
‘till today the Balkan,when a storm rises,
remembers that day tumultuous,clamors and carries
its fame wild like an echo
from ravine to ravine,from age to age.
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