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Rablje Lake is warm again this year and after the tour many happily swim in it.
The Gorizia nightingale also knew it and composed a wonderful song for it:
Look, the dark lake amid mountain peaks,
look at the stormy lake waves
and hear amid the roaring, rustling of waves
those hollow ringing voices!
Whence this hollow ringing resounds,
when the stormy gale drives the waves?
And where is this house on the scree
surrounded by waves everywhere?
Where the lake today green lies
and spills dark waves,
a village there stood in former days,
village and pasture and field.
And clear brook, rustling loudly,
wound this village like a silver ribbon,
watered the blooming field,
so it grew, bore better.
Beautiful, oh beautiful was this hamlet,
and truly pretty and prosperous,
but the people, oh people were hard,
insensitive, malicious, godless.
In vain the poor wretch at their doors,
in vain the child of pains knocked,
remedies, medicines for pains,
for the rigid never found! —
Behind mountains sank the golden sun,
and night already forms from twilight;
on narrow path still steps someone,
slowly towards the village walks.
Unknown woman, God knows whence,
tired footsteps brought her here,
and the child clings childlike to the woman
in her soft bosom.
This mother looks like poor folk,
but beautiful in flower of life;
innocence from clear eyes shines,
from face kindness, gentleness.
And tender child, oh young child,
how it was lovely and beautiful,
so lovely and so dear,
as if heaven had sent it!
"God's friends, may good father
let you happily live long;
o, pity us poor orphans,
who are alone, alone in the world!
Dark already outside and wind and frost,
let it rest tonight here with you:
who receives beggar under roof,
heaven rewards abundantly."
From threshold to threshold with tears in eyes
for night's bed she begs;
but here by these insensitive people
mercy in vain she seeks:
"No better you are, go elsewhere,
for both not spacious enough this home!"
With that each sends her from house,
and many add curses.
Already outside village, already on field stands,
in cold, in darkness, without house —
shakes her icy breath the bones,
and poor woman to heaven sighs;
"Oh, father in heaven, you father of orphans,
hide us under your mighty wing,
love from world has fled,
insensitive people like rock.
I perhaps deserve, not complain,
that they drive me out from dwelling;
but child, what you have done, know not,
that people so chase you!
You innocent, angelic being,
grieved no one ever;
and yet, little orphan, you
they also pushed away.
Where find you nest, my birdie,
where want soft bed make?
But, dearest heart, don't fear,
loving mother guards you!
Rock in arms nicely I will,
and warm with breathing carefully,
that cold defends only you,
but me let only freeze!"
Words deep sigh chokes her,
heart in sorrow melts,
over face tear stream pours,
but not just drop drips.
Tears of paupers heavy tears,
woe you, merciless folk, woe!
Tear which orphan sheds,
to heaven for punishment drinks!
Already wants to drag to ground, but - look!
what shines there nearby?
There lonely house is, mother to it
and in hope and fear turns.
Who there dwells? Dare hope,
that there human people live?
If house even this drives her,
then no hope more.
Knocks. — Gray old man unlocks the door,
which flickering light illuminates;
children on straw rest there,
poverty here rules and want.
"Shelter not find orphan nowhere,
chase everywhere like wild beast,
o, give, at least you not chase
from your meek me away!"
"Just inside, just inside mother and son
enter, rest with us;
at house no villains nor soft cushions,
rest with us on straw!"
To good family they lie now,
above them heavenly guardian floats
and house where stranger rests,
under own wings covers. —
Hear, outside wildly rages storm,
from sky pour floods,
flash on flash and strike on strike,
judgment day neared?
And now, o horror, crumbling earthquake!
Roaring, rumbling from steep heavens
terribly and frighteningly spreads —
what will be, what will be from this!
Storm quieted and day makes,
and hut old man unlocks;
vanished stranger before dawn —
but where beautiful village?
No house, no tower, no churchlet,
where village lay, lake lies;
only little house
on dry scree remained...
Still today this house on scree stands,
witness of terrible evening;
all else like in deep grave lies
dead under lake's waves;
only sometimes, when wind waves drives,
moans drowned bell announces...
Tear, which orphan poured,
from heaven punishment released!
Simon Gregorčič, Rablje Lake
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