Janka Kupała

For my native land

I take my flute, so long in slumber lying,

And try once more to make its voices heard;

Will they suffice, those shining thoughts and words,

Will its benevolent song soar, smoothly flying?

 

And I begin to play, with some fear lying

On me, though the song as of old is stirred

Chimes like breeze through the heather, and like bird

Its trills with the sweet nightingale are vying.

 

And still I wonder, how my song will seem, though,

To kinsmen-neighbours? Will they bless it, say?

Or in the bog to drown cast it away?

 

Yet, as my path I wander, sadly dreaming,

I shall play loud 'midst nightmare's secret looming,

For native land, my mother, I shall play.

 

1918

 




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

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