This File Last Updated:2002/06/18


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Zołata Sałomy

    Ryhor Siemaškievič

    Jak zorka žnivienia lacić — łavi, ruka!
    To ziernie pieršaje zlataje z kałaska.

    Dni na sychod. Adbiŭ najdoŭhi čas.
    Dzien zołata sałomy siońna ŭ nas.

    Pryjšli kambajny ludziam pamahčy,
    Chadzili cichim chodam da načy.
    Papłyŭ žytniovy saładkavy duch,
    A z hniozdaŭ pierapiołak — šery puch.

    Chadziem, mały! Hladzi, usie pajšli,
    Ziamnoha ščaścia viazki paniaśli.
    Tak! Kožny rupicca, daŭno pryvyk
    Nabić sałomaj śviežaju siańnik.

    Jak dobra śpicca… Spać kudy lahčej,
    Nu, nie raspluščyć ranicaj vačej.

    Sałoma žytam tolki što była,
    Jana jašče raście, nie darasła.

    Jana pachuča soncam addaje,
    I vołkaść adčuvajecca jaje.

    Laž, chłopčyk, na śviatuju čyściniu —
    Ty ž sam, jak čyścinia jaje ahniu.

    Ja ž u dychańni soniečnym zamru,
    Prad zołatam jaje pierabiaru
    Nanova kožny dzień žyćcia, što źnik.
    Voś tak pierabiraje katalik

    Ružaniec viečarami u cišy
    Ci sknara hrošy — ščaście dla dušy.

    Što ž, kožnamu svajo — jaki tut ździŭ? —
    Ja ž zołata takoje palubiŭ,
    Ahoń kastra, vadu, udar viasła.
    Sałoma siońnia da mianie pryjšła.

    I pokul vodar hety nie ačach,
    Pakajusia va ŭsich svaich hrachach.

    A potym budu błasłaviona spać.
    Jak dziŭna! Zołata, a nie kuplać.
    I tolki załatyja sny adny,
    Pryśniacca ludziam załatyja sny.

Straw Gold

    by Ryhor Siemashkievich

    Like a star of August falling — catch it, hand!
    The first grain falls from the ripe ear throughout the land.

    The days decline. The longest time is past.
    The day of straw gold has come round at last.

    The combines came to help with all their might,
    Quietly about the fields they went till night.
    The sweetish scent of rye drifted around,
    And, drifting from the quails' nests, came grey down.

    Let's go, my boy! Look, all have gone. Each holds
    A bundle of earth's happiness of gold.
    Yes! Each is eager, eager as of yore,
    To fill his palliasse with fresh new straw.

    How sweetly then you slumber, sound and deep;
    Morning can hardly rouse your eyes from sleep.

    The straw was growing rye till yesterday,
    It still is growing, has not died away.

    It radiates sunlight and fragrant scent,
    And still its living moisture is not spent.

    Lie down, boy, on its holiness, and rest —
    For like its pure fire, you too are blest.

    And I'll stand in the breathing of the sun,
    Before its gold tell over, one by one,
    Every day of my life, and shall recall
    Them, as a Catholic when evening falls

    Quietly tells his rosary, or bent
    Miser his gold, counting his heart's content.

    To each his own — what wonder here unfolds? —
    But I have found a great love for this gold,
    The bonfire's flame, water, a splashing oar.
    And so, today, there comes to me this straw.

    Before its fragrant scent is past and done,
    I shall confess my sins here, every one.

    And then I shall sleep sound in blessedness.
    How strange! This gold is given as largesse.
    And then our dreaming glows with golden gleams,
    And sleep is filled with naught but golden dreams.


Publication & Date:   from Leśničoŭka, by Ryhor Siemaškievič, Minsk, 1968.






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