🚧I owe my mother all — my name at table
Аркадзь КуляшоўВедах беларускіх
Translated by
і we my mother all —my name at table, Mv home here, in our numerous family crew, And my koliska — that’s my rocking cradle, yhe hand-carved wooden spoon, and soup-bowl too, All in the house, which to her toil is due.
I’m mother’s cradle song. I’m mother’s care.
I’m mother’s wrath, which set camp-fires alight. And drove back Death, back westwards — to her lair With whips of TNT till victory broke.
The roads of seven fronts trailed clouds of smoke Behind me, like the fuse of dynamite.
And I, having cut short the siren’s cry, I’ll not let atom bombs lay all to waste, And turn the world to a warren of refuge-caves, A million names to dust — a casualty list, A million cradles — to a million graves.
Translated by Walter May.
ПІН ■MHMUinummiinuiilKMlinillUlllr
Ofc 124
ПІІУІЕН ПАНЧАНКА