TATITERA — Плач Агари

(To my son Ishmael)

It is hard to breathe in the desert, The sun blazes — an angry king. A mother weeps and weeps for her son, Dark-skinned Hagar moans:

“All hope is fading, The angel of life has withdrawn. You lie with eyelids closed, My poor son Ishmael!

On your brow, from burning torment, The colors of death have fallen. Your curls have tangled like a dark cloud, Your lips are parched.

The Eternal has not poured upon us From His abundance. Here, in the endless desert, We shall perish — you and I!”

But He who is glorious and mighty Heard the cry for her son. And, murmuring, a roaring spring Of pure waters burst forth in the desert.

That same sorrow, like a gloomy dream, Torments my soul. When you grow thirsty, my dear son — With what shall I give you to drink?

Hard is the path to the holy homeland, Where shall I find heavenly strength? We are alone in the desert of life, My poor son Ishmael!

Will a mighty spirit descend With a radiant brow — That you may find, in the scorching noon, A bright spring of living water?