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🚧The white apple-trees

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№ spring the bright sap from the brich-bark is breakinq Rivers sweep to the sea all their armour, unllngering jn spring on the paws of the spruces are shaking New bright green fingers.

And tenderly stroking their saplings, each spruce Gives then amber beads of their resinous juice.

The cuckoos tell fortunes, the lapwings are mourning, Nightingales deafeningly call;

And from the blossoming apples are born now Maidens in our land.They all Yesterday with theirdumb dolls were at play, But are adorned with white corals today.

Othe white apple-trees, O the white apples. The bashful maidens, lads gawky and shy, The mad exciting perfume of the petals, And the spring drunkenness on hot lips lies’ Mist does not cool them and firs do not scratch them, Only their mothers are anxious and watchful.

Bashfully, proudly, they must bring later Their light burden to this unlight world of ours, To bring forth and tend their sons and their daughters, Always remembering the apples in flower.

And for others who find their heart’s desire never, They will see apple-blossom — and tears will well ever.


years wives have looked out, shading their eyes, Aching for husbands and sons.

e stars have been failing, like glow-worms, they fly .nt0 deeps of dear dreams, and are gone.

ndthey did the mowing, the plough they were plying, for them their dear ones meanwhile were dying.

And their black tresses grew white as the blossom Lorchard path covered with grasses…

A d tomorrow, when men reach out into the cosmos ^eir sorrow will be no more easy.

shall 9° forth welcome the spacemen’s return, And mothers will gulp down not tears that burn.

All night till the morning star, they will watch, yearn, With cold eyes the universe rlying, Thinking — will that star today flare and burn, Or a rocked with their dear sons flying, Always for them to pine and to worry, Their longing multiplies cares by the hundred.

Outthere are no milestones, out there are no roads, No lay-by to rest on your roaming.

The universe grew stale, and fevers corrode

It without the great grace of a woman.

But today I call to the sky: send those clouds running, For Mars’s first citizens are born among us.

We shall see women unearthy in beauty,

They are our joy and our sorrow

We shall people the planets, and sow the far blueness Of stars with love’s power tomorrow.

And somewhere in the Cosmos, alluringly laden With flowers, as at home, there will bloom apple-maidens.

Translated by Vera Rich.

»t iron тіШЛ іШНТМ чі ІЯЯПІ HUH 11


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Collections: Belarusan Lyric poetry