03/03/2021
🇧🇬3rd of March - The Liberation Day, officially known as the Day of Liberation of Bulgaria from the Ottoman Rule!🇧🇬
Shipka is a famous historical peak in central Bulgaria. There Bulgarian volunteers, known as Opalchentsi, and the Russian Empire fought against the Ottoman Empire during the Russo-Turkish War (1877–1878)
"The Volunteers At Shipka" by Ivan Vazov
What if we still carry shame on our forehead,
Marks of the whip, signs of bo***ge abhorrent;
What if the remembrance of infamous days
It hangs like a cloud over all we survey;
What if in history no place we're allotted,
What if our name is a tragic one? What if
Old Belasitsa and recent Batak
Over our past throw their deep shadows black;
What if men mockingly laugh in our faces,
Pointing to newly lost fetters, to traces
Still on our necks of the ages-long yoke;
What if this freedom was given to our folk?
What of it? We know a recent true story,
A shining new symbol, a symbol of glory,
That proudly within every bosom pulsates.
And noble, strong feeling within us awakes;
There on a mounting that glows in the distance,
Heaven's blue vault on its broad shoulder lifting,
Rises a famous wild peak with blood on its moss,
A monument massive to a deed that's immortal,
Because a deep memory lives in the Balkans,
Because there's a name that shall live for all time,
As bright as a legend in history, it shines,
A new name, its roots to antiquity tracing,
As great ad Thermopylae, all fame embracing,
The same to wipe shame away, with its plain truth.
Smashing to smithereens calumny's tooth.
O, Shipka!
For three days out, youthful battalions.
The pass has defended. The high mountain valleys
Re-echo the battle's tumultuous roar.
The onslaught's ferocious! Again the dense hordes.
Along the ravine for the twelfth time are crawling.
Where warm blood is flowing, and bodies are sprawling.
Assault on assault! Swarm on the swarm; they advance!
Once more, at the towering peak, Suleiman is pointing:
"Rush forward! Up there are the rayahs!"
Away race the hordes in a rage wild and dire,
A thunderous "Allah" re-echoes afar.
The summit replies with a rousing "Hurrah!",
A hail of fresh bullets and tree trunks and boulders;
Spattered with blood, our battalions boldly.
Retaliate, every man in his own way
Striving to be in the front of the fray,
Each, like a hero, death bravely defying,
Determined to leave one more enemy dying.
Cannon is pounding. The Turks with a cry
Rush up the slope where they tumble and die;
Coming like tigers, like sheep they go flying,
Then come once again: the Bulgarians fighting.
Like lions are running along the redoubt,
Neither heat, thirst, nor toil are they worried about.
The onslaught is fierce, the rebuff no less stout.
For three days, they fight, but no help is arriving,
And no hope is visible on the horizon,
And no brother eagles come swiftly with aid.
No matter. They'll die, but die true, unafraid -
As died the brave Spartans who stood against Xerxes.
Fresh waves are now rolling up; all are alerted!
A last effort is needed: the moment is grave.
And then does Stoletov, our general brave,
Roar words of great courage: "Young volunteer fighters,
Now crown Bulgaria with laurels of triumph!
The Tsar has entrusted the pass, the whole war,
Himself even, unto these muscles, of yours!"
Thus heartened, our proud and heroic battalions
Courageously meet the next thrust of the rallying.
Enemy hordes! O heroic time!
Fresh waves of assailants the cliffs now climb.
Our men have no bullets, with bravery girded,
Their bayonets broke, their breasts ever sturdy,
They're all to a man ready gladly to die.
On the ridge which the whole of the world can descry,
To die here like heroes triumphant, victorious.
"The whole of Bulgaria watches supports us,
The peak is a high one: if we run away,
She'll see us – so better to die here today!"
No weapons are left! What remains is the slaughter!
Each stone is a bomb, and each tree-trunk a sword is.
Each object – a blow, and each soul – a flame that sears.
From the peak, every tree, every stone disappears.
"Grab hold of the bodies!" they hear a voice crying,
At once through the air, lifeless corpses are flying,
And over the hordes like black devils, they dive
And tumble and roll as if they were alive!
The Turks quake and tremble, not having seen ever.
The living and death fight a battle together,
And raise a shrill cry of demoniac rage.
In life and death combat, the armies engage.
Our heroes, there standing as steady as boulders,
Meet bayonet steel with steel breasts no less boldly,
And sing as they cast themselves into the fray.
When they realize death shall now sn**ch them away.
But still, our young heroes rebuff, sink and swallow.
The hordes that are wave upon wave swiftly follow.
The peak any minute shall ours be no more.
Then suddenly, Radetzky arrives with a roar. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
And today, every time there's a storm in the mountain,
The summit recalls this gloomy day and, recounting.
The story, its echoing glory, relays
From valley to valley, from age unto the age!
