🚧In our small townYaudakia Los
In our small town
the gardens are a-glut,
And there is munching of the rosy fruit,
And round the club by day - the hoarse-cheered team At evening, though, I
so quiet you want to scream…
In our small town there’s dew on grassy plots, And a prevalence of long, thick-plaited locks/ Some are so dark, and some like ripened rye; They are so fine, you feel that you must fly, Even with combs and ribbons make you fair, Even place fresh-plucked garlands round your hair, Even look round on someone with a smile, And having conquered — queen it for a while.
The edge of dawn
Above the town is seen…
For children — school, for grandads — peace serene…
But what for those with plaits as fair as flax,
And even grey, since those days left their tracks, When winds of woe across our gardens blew, And off to take up arms the young lads flew.
Console these women, nightingales — their grief… They have no happiness, no family life…
No liberation in the secret tear,
No joy in plaits,
in plaits of lovely hair…
And he, who by those locks was captive made, Yet unsubdued, beneath the ground was laid.