This File Last Updated: 2006/09/19


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    The Musician

    by Ciotka (Alaiza Pashkievich)


      I would have played much, but now all my strength goes,
      And string after lyre-string is breaking,
      Although valiant song is not yet in its death-throes
      And thought after thought is awaking.

      I would have played much, but death says 'Hold!' to me,
      For the grave it would bid me make ready.
      Ah, strings, ye may break then, what harm can it do me?
      In the grave we shall lie down together!

      Maybe from this lyre there will grow a green willow,
      And from the snapped strings snowy flowers,
      Maybe in its shadow will come to play children,
      Joyfully through the spring hours.

      And, maybe, then, one of those children will whittle
      A flute, grandchild to the lost lyre,
      And will play on it so the whole earth hears its ditty
      And knows it my echo sincere.

      And the strings of the grandfather, untimely broken,
      Shall chime out like bell-notes resounding,
      And the songs that its lifespan had left half-unspoken
      In its scion yield harvest abounding,

      And, on All Souls' Night, below the dark willow
      Will the living word echo forth truly,
      And the song with a thousandfold strength shall peal, thrilling,
      And my lyre shall live again newly.

    Грайка

    Цётка   (Алаіза Пашкевіч)


    Граў бы я многа, ды сіл не хватае,
    I рвецца за стрункаю струнка,
    Хоць песня яшчэ не замёрла ўдалая,
    Хоць родзіцца думка за думкай.

    Граў бы я многа, ды смерць кажа «годзе!»,
    Ў магілку мне ладзіцца кажа...
    Эй, рвіцеся, струны, што гэта мне шкодзе?
    У магілку супольна мы ляжам!

    Можа, з той ліры вырасце іва,
    3 парваных струн — белыя кветкі,
    Можа, вясною будуць ігрыва
    У дрэўца ценю гуляць дзеткі,

    Можа, хто з дзетак скруце жалейку —
    Ўнучку паломанай ліры —
    I так зайграе, што ўсенька зямелька
    Пачуе мой водгалас шчыры!

    Дзедавы струны, рана парваныя,
    Зноў громка азвуцца, як звоны:
    Песня, за жыцце яго недаграная,
    Ў сэрцы унука дасць плёны.

    А на задушкі1 пад цёмнаю івай
    Жывое пачуецца слова,
    Што песня ўстала з стотысячнай сілай,
    Жыве мая ліра нанова!





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Original content and overall form ©1996-2006 by Peter Kasaty : All Rights Reserved. Last Updated:  2006/09/19
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