Janka Kupała

Across my native fields and furrows

Across my native fields and furrows,

Under a sky unfriendly, easeless,

Peace of the ages, fraught with treason,

Leads me; I creep, and something follows.

 

With me, behind me, foeman-sorrow

With dull grim whisper ever teases;

Though to play prophet it may please you:

Today is yesterday's unchanged morrow.

 

Everything lives by the same God still,

Even spring's herald, loudly ringing,

Cannot cleanse fields from mildew clinging...

 

Ploughman brings shoots to fallow sod still:

Though ploughshare into gravemounds prods still,

He recalls not ancestral singing.

 

1910

 




Source: Janka Kupała. Sonnets. Mastackaja litaratura, 2002.
Translation: Вера Рыч

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