On the soul's anvil a first verse I forged,
And sorrow served me for a hammer;
That song's midnight cry in my heart deep I lodged,
And the heart told its woe in loud clamour.

On the soul's strings a first verse played I loud,
The echoes raced far to the distance;
And with them the ploughman his strip deeply ploughed,
And with teardrops the eyes were all misted.

1909

Author: Źmitrok Biadula Source: Like Water, Like Fire. London, 1971. Translation: Vera Rich Biełaruskaja Palička: http://knihi.com