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Пятрусь Броўка
Пятрусь Броўка на
Ведах беларускіх

Translated by


Orphan flute sobs in the forest are breaking You have grown silent, Grown dumb, our Nadziejka.

Who would have dreamed the working of fortune: Your eyes to be closed by cloudy autumn, Your tresses unplaited, Cheeks sunken palely, Hands drooping frailly.

«Nadzia-Nadziejka!» the flute’s sobs are breaking. Never again your hands

Shall reap the rye more, Shall reap the rye more, Nor the sheaves tie more.

For the third night the young girl is hanging On the white birch-tree, near her home standing. A searing-grief chains the heart over, What is this, birch-tree, could you not save her?

With yellowed leaves come tears bitter and paining, From the white birch-tree, falling and raining: «Oyou good people, I pray that you set me Free from my grief, fell me, it were fare better! From very childhood this maid I remember…

Gold of the far sand,

Green of a garland.

Blue her eyes, seeming Like cornflowers gleaming…»

Gusty the winds, and wild the storms blowing… Sad through the forest a young lad is going. Nadzia-Nadziejka!» the flute’s sobs are breaking. With yellowed leaves come tears bitter and paining, from the white birch-tree falling and raining: *Toung lad, your eyes heavy with sorrow, Hew me down, white, in night’s blackness, for terror * *s to endure this young maiden’s horror.

I recall you two laughing, Dancing and singing Ballads of springtime UH dawn-light glimmered…»

The lad carries his grief the broad ploughland over, Seeks in his pain from the birch to discover: «Why couldn’t your branches hide my beloved?» «Nadzia-Nadziejka!» The flute’s sobs are breaking.

With yellowed leaves come tears bitter and paining, From the white birch-tree falling and raining «When there came flying the darkness-attacker, Serpents crawled in, with bite of an adder, They breathed forth smoke — I became blackened. With uproar, commotion, Alarm, devastation, Beauty they ruined.

The maiden — they slew her!»

Through woodland and forest and oak-grove goes sternly A lad fired with anger, a lad grim-determined: «Soon I’ll be returning With my companions, With lightning’s clamour, And thunder’s hammer,

With iron generation, we’ll roast out these adders, We’ll cleanse the sky, every cloud we shall scatter, We shall honour this maiden, The branches we’ll straighten, We’ll sprinkle the grasses with pure tear-drops over, With pure tear-drops over, Like dewdrop cover…» «Nadzia-Nadziejka!» the flute’s cry is waking.

Translated by Vera Rich__.


tan lodge om

the rootsol

b^jOBwakatours tangofilth

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Collections: Belarusan Lyric poetry