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We call on the gods, and the gods well know
what storms torment us, sailors whirled to nothing.
But if we are to live and reach the haven,
one small seed could grow a mighty tree -

Оцей бо злочин я тепер покутую,
В кайданах лютих просто неба висячи.

You are dreaming, children,
dreams dearer than gold, more blest
than the Blest beyond the North Wind's raging.
Dreams are easy, oh,
but the double lash is striking home.