You say, caboklinya,
That as soon as night comes,
Someone's shadow is moaning nearby
So much so that it is unbearable.
But as soon as anyone leaves the house,
The shadow rushes away:
Is it a werewolf wandering around?
Through the darkening fields?
Perhaps, finding no peace,
Is someone's spirit groaning there?
Your whole family is wondering
Who wanders there at night...
It’s immediately obvious: you’ve recently
Settled here with us,
Otherwise they would have heard
The story of the old people here
About the cave whose mystery
Hidden from prying eyes.
And the cave about which
We're having a conversation here
Near your own house,
Your yard runs through...
So listen to the legend
Which has been known for a long time.
One old man, a rebel, -
He's in the old days
Here he fought for freedom -
It was told to me;
Maybe someone else remembers
But I guarantee the point is true.
In that mysterious cave
Where a spring gurgles in silence,
There lived a husband and wife, Indians, -
That's what the old man said,
Lived peacefully, glorifying
Every hour and every moment.
But how did the Spaniards start?
Drive with the Portuguese
Shepherds from ancestral lands, -
Sepe, the cacique, raised the army.
And he left, saying goodbye to his wife,
Husband fights with enemies.
But the rebels were defeated
Their leader Sepe fell in the battle...
The village became sadly silent,
We were saddened
Seeing the Indians off into the distance
Along a remote forest path.
An Indian was dying from his wounds.
And he prayed to his wife
Take it quickly to the cave:
There, in the cool silence,
Among the unhewn stone
He will rest in the sleep of death.
They took him to the cave:
There, having uttered the last groan,
Under the sad murmur
Rodnik died,
And Pulkeria, wife,
He was buried in a cave.
Those times are gone
And now he lives around
Not Indian, as it once was,
And a completely different people
But Pulkeria is in the cave
Wanders all night long.
Spread throughout the area
There is a rumor about Pulkeria;
Shepherds, tramps, servants
My words will be confirmed:
Guarding her husband's grave
Inconsolable widow.
If you have trust
No to my story
Go to the cave at night
And when the dawn shines,
You'll see for yourself on the sand
Indian women have a clear trail.
When I was a child, shepherds scared me
Indian me:
Like, they applied their ear
To the stone, dismounting from his horse,
And the widow's steps were heard
Even in broad daylight.
They say another cave
There is nothing like this in the whole world:
But from her mighty walls
It emanates fear and melancholy...
No one has bothered me yet
Dead man's holy rest.
During the day they walk near the cave
Herds. Cattle graze
Birdsong penetrates
Trills under the dark vault.
From the people to that cave
And a daredevil will not do...
And in winter, in the silent night,
When the air is damp and hazy,
Coming from the cave
Mournful terrible whistle:
Birds fly away in fear
A trembling leaf falls...
For the companions of her husband
It goes out into the night, they say
Poor widow and wanders
Where their squad fought...
But, alas, where can you find them -
Those who fell two hundred years ago?
And when winter is over,
Summer will light a fire
And spread across the plains
Blooming carpet, -
On a moonless night Pulkerya
Out into the open again...
Tears marigolds and alfalfa,
Tearing thistle color:
She collects it overnight
Enormous bouquet
And carries her husband to his grave
At the hour when dawn shines.
On a walk or in a shop
You didn't have to hear
About the Indian who died here,
That he fell in an unequal struggle,
About Pulkeria, about the widow,
Her sad fate?..
Having seen the shadow of Pulkeria,
Everyone in the area at the same moment
They disappear for fear
So that the ghost does not overtake them.
At night you can't even hear
In the pumpa keru-keru scream...
Do you see the light coming from the cave?
Barely gets through?
That's at my husband's grave
The widow lit the candle again...
It's been two hundred years since he died,
But her love is alive.
Translated from Russian · original on wisdomlib.ru