Janka Kupała

I love

I love the first shoots that make our fields quicken,

And the meadows swaddled in fresh green,

And the forest sounds that sadly keen,

And a summer freshet's murmured trickle...

 

I love our village decked with mossy sheen,

Witness to all the wrongs on it inflicted,

Our people, like a flower wilted, stricken,

Dear to me is our country's every scene.

 

I love the sparkling eyes and the soft breast

And the lissom form of a fair maid,

Awake, asleep, think of her constantly,

 

I love - and cry out in my loneliness:

And the dry forest hears the cry I've prayed,

The cry: O who, O who is there loves me?

 

1912

 




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

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