No Second Troy / William Butler Yeats
מָה אַאֲשִׁים אוֹתָהּ עַל שֶׁמִּלְּאָה
יָמַי בְּצַעַר, אוֹ לָאַחְרוֹנָה
לִמְּדָה טִפְּשִׁים, מְחֻסְּרֵי תְּבוּנָה
דַּרְכֵי פְּרָאוּת. עַל כָּךְ שֶׁבִּגְלָלָהּ
הָיוּ זוֹרְקִים סִמְטוֹת עַל הַשְּׂדֵרוֹת
לוּ כִּתְשׁוּקָה הָיְתָה לָהֶם גְּבוּרָה?
מָה לְרַסֵּן אוֹתָהּ, אֲשֶׁר רוּחָהּ
הָאֲצִילוּת פִּשְּׁטָה כַּבְּעֵרָה
עִם יֹפִי עַז, כְּקֶשֶׁת מְתוּחָה
מִסּוּג שֶׁלֹּא נָפוֹץ כַּיּוֹם, יוּכַל?
מַדּוּעַ, מֶה עָשְׂתָה כְּבָר, בִּהְיוֹתָהּ עַצְמָהּ?
הֲאִם בִּשְׁמָהּ עוֹד טְרוֹיָה תְּאֻכַּל?
Why should I blame her that she filled my days
With misery, or that she would of late
Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
Or hurled the little streets upon the great,
Had they but courage equal to desire?
What could have made her peaceful with a mind
That nobleness made simple as a fire,
With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
That is not natural in an age like this,
Being high and solitary and most stern?
Why, what could she have done, being what she is?
Was there another Troy for her to burn?
