Song of a Worker

My hope is not yet lost,

o sweetly beloved homeland,

of finding on your soil

a little corner to settle down in

before my end arrives...

A cottage on top of a hill, surrounded

by a vegetable garden

and fruit trees,

a vineyard of abundant grapes,

a clear spring that gushes noisily.

There under the foliage of a luxuriant tree

I shall work, I shall breathe easily.

Before the surrounding ruins

I shall pour out my heart,

I shall ask: when will the anger end?

But while from the edges of the valleys

I hear the song of my vigorous brothers,

I shall say: Behold the end of the days!

Behold the end of our miseries!