🚧The ripe forest
Анатоль ВялюгінВедах беларускіх
Translated by
THE RIPE FOREST
Of all cathedrals there is one
That I consent to pray in:
Ripe forest, when ripe summer comes, Then set your belfry playing.
In sultry fragrance of the lea,
Where youth of old was strolling,
Thorn-apple, cockle, rosemary
Set incenses a-rolling.
Rank upon rank the fungi brood,
Bumblebee’s bass is shaking.
Deep is the moss. The leaves show blood
Of the bear-raspberry’s making.
The trunks with arrow-tappings bleed, Marked with the cross of suffering.
And hastening Brother-Badger speeds,
To his dark corner hurrying.
And amber resin’s healthful smell.
In the clear height extending
That white down is not clouds, it tells
Of angels hawks were rending.
At every step, is something new.
Thyme makes the air oppressive.
And each pine sings an anthem true, Its forest’s praise expressing.
style=”position: absolute; top: 0.72in; left: 5.08in” Translated by Vera Rich.
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ANATOL vialuhin