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77 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1185
И начяша князи про малое «се великое» млъвити, и сами на себѣ крамолу ковати, а поганіи съ всѣхъ странъ прихождаху съ побѣдами на землю Рускую.
А князья дружин не собирают,
Не идут войной на супостата,
Малое великим называют
И куют крамолу брат на брата.
А враги на Русь несутся тучей,
И повсюду бедствие и горе.
The grass bows in pity
and the trees, in sorrow,
Bend to the ground.
For now, O brothers, A time of sorrrow has come,
And desolaation covers our troops.
You, wild Ryurik and David!
Is it not your golden helmets
That are floating in blood?
Is it not your brave warriors
Who, wounded by tempered sabres,
Scream like wild oxen on an unknown plain!
Step then, lords, into your golden stirrups,
For the wrong of our times,
For the Russian Land,
For the wounds of Igor,
the wild son of Svyatoslav!