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Пятрусь Броўка
Пятрусь Броўка на
Ведах беларускіх

Translated by


Autumn goes in grey-toned tunic, Woven out of minatory, Gloomy clouds.

Her hair-strands hoary

She lets loose above the pasture, Walks the woodlands, and in handfuls Throws down leaves with spiteful gesture.

But the sun makes no concession, Through the piles of clouds he pierces, Soon he smiles on the old woman. Other days — I look, and Autumn Has become more kind, caressing.

She has smiled and started singing;

Bright the tunic she is wearing, Of brocade and gold inwoven; With her cheeks like burning, With her eyes like streamlets shining, Clearest azure, like the heaven.

Now it’s lovely the country.

Stiff the straw-stacks and the hay-ricks Oven Autumn guard are standing: In the fields are camp-fires burning: In the ashes; crisp and browning, Tasty baked potatoes huddle.

Autumn goes through mossy forests, In a sarafan of heather, And with every pine-tree whispers; Even moss, it seems, like silver On the copper tree-stumps glisters…

I go forth and meet my Autumn.

Translated by Walter May__.

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Collections: Belarusan Lyric poetry