English poems praising the motherland

I hear America singing.

-walt whitman

I hear America singing, and I hear all kinds of carols.

Those mechanics, each singing that he should be happy and powerful,

While singing, the carpenter measured his board or beam.

Masons sing when preparing for work or after work.

The boatman is singing his song on his boat, and the sailor is singing on the deck of the steamboat.

The shoemaker sits on the bench and sings, while the hatter stands and sings.

The woodcutter's song, the farmer on the way in the morning,

Or rest at noon or at sunset,

The beautiful singing voice of a mother or a young wife at work,

Or girls sewing or washing,

Everyone sings their own songs, not others'.

The day belongs to the day-the party of young men at night, which is strong and friendly.

Open your mouth and sing their strong and sweet songs.

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I hear America singing.

Walt Whitman

I hear America singing, I hear all kinds of songs,

Those mechanical workers' songs, everyone sings his naturally happy and magnificent songs,

The carpenter measured his board or beam while singing.

The plasterer sings his songs when he is ready to start work or get off work.

The boatman sang his song on his boat, and the deck sailor sang it on the deck of the steamboat.

The shoemaker sits on the stool and sings, while the hatter stands and sings.

Loggers' songs, songs sung by children pulling farm animals on the road in the morning, during lunch break or at sunset,

A song sweetly sung by a mother or young wife at work, or by a girl while sewing or washing clothes,

Everyone sings a song that belongs to him or her instead of others.

Singing songs that belong to the day during the day-at night, these strong and friendly young people,

Just let go of their voices and sing their magnificent and sweet songs.

2. Motherland

-lermontov

I love my motherland, but in the strangest way;

My intelligence will never conquer it.

The fame I bought with my blood and pain,

Peace full of pride,

Dark old age and its stories

Will not arouse a pleasant and inspiring wind in my heart.

But I do, and I don't know why,

Its cold terrain is always quiet,

Its endless woodlands? Oscillatory fatigue

The sea-like river overflows wantonly.

Along the country road, I like riding horses.

Through the morbid darkness with slow eyes,

Trembling village lights were found on the side,

Thinking about where I'm going to park this time.

I like the smoke in the barn,

Sleigh sleeping on the grassland,

Birch trees growing on the mountain

Occupying gaps in the grassland.

Happiness, people can't fathom,

I felt the haste of the threshing scene,

A hut covered with leaves,

Decorated window screens.

On the evening of the banquet

I like to stay up until midnight.

Dance accompanied by tapping and chatting.

A bunch of drunken guys.

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homeland

-lermontov

I love my motherland, but I use strange love!

Even my reason can't win.

Whether it's the glory of blood,

Whether full of pride and piety,

Regardless of the sacred rumors of ancient times,

Can't arouse my comfortable dreams.

But I like it-I don't know why-

Its desolate and indifferent silence on the grassland,

The endless forest is swaying in the wind,

The raging river rushes like the sea,

I like driving along the path between villages.

Through the boundless night with slow eyes,

I miss the place where I stay at night and welcome it.

Light quivering along the road.

I like the smoke from wildfires,

A large group of horses and chariots spent the night on the grassland,

On the hills in the yellow fields,

Those sparkling birch trees.

I am full of happiness that no one knows.

Looking at the threshing floor full of grain,

A farmhouse covered with straw,

A small window with embossed shutters,

On a dewy holiday night,

In that drunken farmer's joke,

Watch the dance with a whistle,

I can see deeper midnight.

3. America

-allen ginsberg

America, I gave you everything, and now I am nothing.

The United States is two dollars and twenty-seven cents a month 17, 1956.

I can't stand my own thoughts.

America, when can we end the human war?

Go fuck yourself with your atomic bomb.

I don't feel well. Don't bother me.

I won't write my poem until I am clear-headed.

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United States of America

Ginsberg

America, I gave you everything and now I have nothing.

The United States, two dollars and twenty-seven cents, 1956 65438+ 10/0/7.

I can't stand my own thoughts.

America, when can we end this human war?

Fuck you, your atomic bomb.

I don't feel well. Don't mess with me

You can't write poetry until your brain is normal.

4. Memories of France

-paul celan

Memories with me: the sky in Paris, the huge crocus …

We went to the flower girl's booth and bought some heart-shaped food:

They are blue and open in the water.

It began to rain in our room,

Our neighbor, Mr Le Songe, came in, a thin man.

We played cards and I lost the iris of my eyes;

You lent me your hair, and I lost it. He knocked us down.

He left by the door and the rain followed him out.

We're dead, and we can still breathe.

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Memories of France

Paul Selan

Memories of walking with me: the sky in Paris, blockbuster,

Narcissus in autumn

We buy hearts from the flower girl:

They are blue and bloom on the water.

It began to rain. In our neighbor's room,

Our neighbor, Mr. Larson, a thin man,

Men come in.

We played cards and I lost the rainbow color in my eyes.

You borrowed my hair, you lost it and he broke it.

We,

He walked next to the door and the rain chased him out.

We're dead, and we can still breathe.

5. Motherland

-Anton Zarko? Ajupi

The motherland is a country.

Where I first looked up,

I love my parents,

Every stone knows me,

I settled there,

Where I first met God,

Where my ancestors lived,

Leave their graves behind,

I grew up eating bread there,

There I learned to speak my own language,

There are my friends and family,

Where I laughed and cried,

I live in joy and hope,

I long to die there one day.

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homeland

Anton Zarko

The motherland is,

Where I first looked up,

What I like about my parents,

Every stone knows where I am,

Where I built my home,

Where I first met God,

This is where my ancestors lived,

Buried in the back,

Where I grow buns,

There I learned to speak my own language,

Where are my friends and family,

I cried and laughed,

I have happiness and hope there,

One day I died there.