Źmitrok Biadula

A winter tale

A snowy night hangs, a savage night hangs,

A grey pelt above forests' wild tresses.

In white plumage of snow, in a white silk of snow,

Valleys, hills under rich snowy dresses.


In the wild of the woods, the age-slumbering woods,

Dwell a people, ill-natured, unspeaking.

In a palace of glass, on a bed all of glass

Lies a maiden with sun-bright hair, sleeping.


Go you, call here by name; go you, wake her again -

Then tall fir-trees will utter harsh creaking.

Then the tempest will moan, then the tempest will groan,

White-eyed winter complain with loud speaking.


Winter then, in alarm, winter then, fearing harm,

In a frenzy of frost will spin, swirling;

Like a horse without rein, like a grey-and-white flame,

The blind snowstorm will rush, rearing, whirling.


And the maid will sigh deep, stir in heavy-dreamed sleep,

With her fingers brush brows clear of hoar-frost,

She will gaze all around, unrestrained, all around,

Sad the grey wolves will howl in the forest.


Go you, rouse her again - and the spring comes again,

Over ploughland larks revel unstinting,

On the river, ice cracks, and away the floes break,

And the playful floods wash out the winter.




Пераклад: Вера Рыч
Крыніца: Like Water, Like Fire. London, 1971.