“But I think first one should ask the question;
just what is a ‘duma?’
Well, rather than talk about it,
let’s listen to a recording.
A rather ancient recording…”
One side of valley,
next to two black poplars
a Kozak shot and cut to pieces,
succumbing to her mortal wounds.
She herself calls upon the righteous judge in heaven,
receives comfort from neither father nor mother.
Bullet wounds fill with blood…
Sabre wounds penetrate her heart…
The Kozak curses the valley with three curses,
“Curses! Curses!
May you valley be swamped by mosses and marshes,
so that you will not glow nor shine in the summer time.
For this is my third valley visit and not once have I seen treasure.
The first time that I ventured my raven horse was lost.
The second time my oldest friend.
And now in my third valley visit,
I must lay down my own Kozak head…”
One side of valley,
next to two black poplars
a Kozak shot and cut to pieces,
succumbing to her mortal wounds.
Just then the black winged eagles that keep vigil over Kozaks,
well those black-winged eagles spun circles around her destined position,
laying stretched beneath two poplars.
Bullet-holes black with blood…
Eagles soaring in the sky above…
She calls out to her last remaining kin,
“My brother, fair as a turtle dove,
help me get to my knees.
Help me pick up my rifle and measure three hammers of powder,
ram in three lead bullets.
So that I may send the black-winged eagles a great great gift.
A great great gift!
A great great…”
Just then the Kozak grabbed her rifle
seven spans long
and played the valley a solemn song.
She pours in three measures of powder,
never more careful in her Kozak life.
She rams in three lead bullets
and sends those black-winged eagles a gift.
Sends those black-winged eagles a great great gift.
A great great gift!
Great great…
And she herself falls upon the earth with her noble heart.
Throws her rifle aside.
Cries…
And gazes towards the sky one last time
She gazes toward the prairie sky,
one last time.
One side of valley,
next to two black poplars
a Kozak shot and cut to pieces,
succumbing to her mortal wounds.
Just then some leaves crumpled in the valley,
and it wasn’t a white tail deer,
and it wasn’t a swift hare hopping.
No, it was a noble Kobzar hiking trails,
her bandura strapped to her back.
She stopped in her tracks
and knelt at the feet of the Kozak.
Experienced in introductions, the Kobzar mourned for the Kozak’s soul.
Felt around for a spot to dig…
Culled soil with precious finger tips…
She piled dirt as high as seven mounds would be,
as high as chokecherry tree.
As high as seven mounds would be,
as high as chokecherry tree.
As high as chokecherry tree!
One side of valley,
next to two black poplars
a Kozak shot and cut to pieces,
succumbing to her mortal wounds.
The valley erupted with the Kobzar’s lament!
Strumming forcefully with no fingertips…
Her mournful tone stung like thistles on horsehide,
“Don’t cry!!!”
The valley erupted with the Kobzar’s lament!
Strumming forcefully with no fingertips…
Her mournful tone stung like thistles on horsehide,
“Don’t cry!!!”
With the bloody bandura…
With the bloody bandura…
She played a bloody bandura!
Bloody bandura!
She played a bloody bandura!
