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🚧My native song

Пятрусь Броўка
Пятрусь Броўка на
Ведах беларускіх

Translated by


Life without you is restricted, mournful, uncoloured and hazy, 0 my own well-loved native song, to what heights have you raised me.

You have taught me to know morsels of ryebread, to love them, You gave me the stars, at night unfolded the heavens above me.

He who learned you in childhood will never from home be turning,

Each of your words is like grain in the ear well-forming.

Song lives through centuries. It gathers its strength for growing, The word that gives us wings, as if it were lightning blowing.

Winds sharpen down the word, so it may soar, insistent, So that we yet may hear each other though far far distant…

Words come from different sources. Sources both sad and merry. As honey from different flowers the bees will collect and carry.

Song, you walk at our side, from birth to our death are near us, My native song, of all things in the world you are dearest.

I know that I’ll lodge one day ‘neath a gravemound, that time is nearing.

Yet through the roots of oaks, still my native song I shall hear then.

Translated by Vera Rich.



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Collections: Belarusan Lyric poetry