Professional Documents
Culture Documents
on liberty
reflections for Belarus
Translation Vera Rich The prominent 19 th century American poet Samuel Francis
Editor Alaksandra Makavik Smith wrote the now familiar words:
Art Director Hienadź Macur
Project Coordinator Valancina Aksak
My country, ‘tis of thee,
© Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty, 2004
Sweet land of liberty,
ISBN 0-929849-05-1 Of thee I sing…
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Today, poets from Belarus and around the world offer their Songs — And Sighs — Of Freedom
own songs in homage to that most precious of aspirations —
the dream of liberty. Liberty for a country like Belarus that
international human rights organizations rank, year in and
year out, among the ever-waning group of “non-free” states.
I am quite sure that one day Belarus will also become the …even I
“sweet land of liberty” envisioned by the weavers of words Regain’d my freedom with a sigh.
whose poems are collected in this volume. Byron, The Prisoner of Chillon
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emerged on to the map of modern Europe as seen through Adradžeńnie’, the largest and most significant of the
the eyes of more than 100 of its most perceptive citizens — ‘informal’ citizens’ associations which sprang up in the final
the poets. For, as Byron reminds us, freedom has its ‘sighs’ years of Soviet power, and which spearheaded the drive for
— no less than its songs. democracy, independence and the revival of Belarusian
language and culture.
The translator working from Belarusian into English (or,
indeed, any European language) is fairly fortunate in this There are, however, in these poems several recurring
respect, being able to tap into a common source of images symbols and images, whose full significance may be less
and allusions. In particular, Belarus shares in the heritage of obvious to the reader unfamiliar with things Belarusian.
‘European culture’, including Graeco-Roman mythology, Foremost among these are the traditional flag — three
and the Bible. (In view of the official atheism of the 70 horizontal stripes of white, red and white, and the coat of
years of communist rule the latter is particularly arms of the Pahonia (the Pursuing Knight), white, on a red
noteworthy; however, the poets represented here clearly ground. These symbols have been traditional to the area
feel that their audience will understand and respond to such over many centuries — indeed, the Pahonia (under its
symbols as Lucifer, Eve, Noah’s flood, the Tower of Babel, Lithuanian name — Vytis) is now the state coat of arms of
Barabbas, or St Peter the ‘Gate-keeper’.) Other shared neighbouring Lithuania. Both flag and Pahonia were
images in this collection — and which may derive either anathema to the Soviet ideologists, who condemned them
from our common cultural tradition or perhaps are inherent as symbols of ‘bourgeois nationalism’. In September 1991,
in the human psyche — include the ‘River’ (= death) and they were adopted as the symbols of the newly independent
the cawing of ravens as an omen of doom (cf. the margins of Republic of Belarus, and remained so until May 1995, when
the Bayeux Tapestry, also ‘Macbeth’, Act 1, v. lines 39—41, they were replaced by a ‘new’ flag and coat of arms, based
‘The raven himself is hoarse/That croaks the fatal entrance on those of Soviet times. Nevertheless, the white-red-white
of Duncan/Under my battlements.’). flag and the Pahonia and evocations of them (red blood on
white snow, a galloping knight, a white horse) are a frequent
Likewise, the symbolic use of the diurnal and annual cycles
motif in this collection.
of nature is perhaps common to all cultures outside the
tropics: night/winter (= oppression) versus dawn/spring Other historical and topographical symbols will be
(= freedom, independence), though in Belarus, the coming explained in the notes to individual poems. One recurring
of spring has an additional significance — it was on 25 allusion which may seem strange to the reader new to
March, traditionally the first day of spring, that in 1918 the things Belarusian is the importance of the city of Vilnia —
(alas, short-lived) independent Belarusian National or to give it its Lithuanian name, Vilnius. For this city is
Republic was proclaimed. Similarly, the word ‘adradžeńnie’ now the capital of neighbouring Lithuania, and it may seem
— ‘rebirth’, ‘renaissance’, often associated in these poems strange that the Belarusians should have this emotional
with the ideas of ‘dawn’ and ‘spring’ for a Belarusian will attachment to what is now a foreign city. It should be
inevitably call to mind the ‘Belarusian Popular Front remembered, however, that for centuries the lands that are
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now Lithuania and Belarus formed a single state the Grand postulated Indo-European root *pri (cf. Sanskrit ‘pri’ to
Duchy of Lithuanian-Ruś and, indeed, an early form of delight or endear) and is hence cognate with Modern
Belarusian was the official language of that state. More English ‘friend’. Although these definitions tend to overlap,
recently, under the rule of the Russian Tsars, Belarus and they served to reinforce what was, from the beginning, my
Lithuania formed the ‘North-West Territory’ of that Empire intuitive feeling — that ‘svaboda’ should be rendered as
and it was in Vilnia that the Belarusian literary and cultural ‘freedom’ and ‘vola’ as ‘liberty’. This, in the main, I have
revival of the early 20th century began. Another foreign city done. In one or two cases, however, this was simply not
of major symbolic importance to Belarusians is Prague, possible, without going counter to terminology already
since it was there, in 1517, that the Belarusian scholar accepted in English: the Prague-based radio station called
Francišak Skaryna produced the first ever printed book in ‘Radyjo Svaboda’ in Belarusian is in English ‘Radio Liberty’,
the Belarusian language — a Psalter. and the famous painting by Delacroix is traditionally called
in English ‘Liberty leading the people’.
However, translation is not only a matter of connotation,
but also of the words themselves. And in this particular Another cluster of words which raise particular problems in
collection of poems, two words are all-important: ‘svaboda’ the context of this collection are the various terms for
and ‘vola’. These are, at first glance, near-synonyms — and homeland ‘Radzima’, ‘Baćkaўščyna’, ‘Ajčyna’. ‘Radzima’
fortunately, English can also provide two near-synonyms: being connected with the verb ‘radzić’ — to give birth, is
‘freedom’ and ‘liberty’. But in neither language are the two most appropriately rendered ‘Motherland’; the other two
words exact equivalent — indeed, one poem in this are derived from alternative words for ‘father’. However,
collection (that of Aleś Čobat) actually focuses on the ‘Fatherland’ in English carries connotations not of one’s
difference between ‘svaboda’ and ‘vola’. Looking at the own country, but rather of the German ‘Vaterland’, with,
etymology of the two words, one finds in the first the Indo- alas, the negative overtones still persisting from Prussian
European root sva- meaning ‘self’, while ‘vola’ has a second militarism and two World Wars. The alternative — ‘Land of
meaning ‘will’. Turning to that arbiter of the English our Fathers’ — is, to British ears, associated first and
language, the Oxford English Dictionary, we find among the foremost with Wales; however, it does at least have more
many meanings listed for ‘liberty’: ‘3.a. The condition of congenial and appropriate overtones — those of a small
being able to act in any desired way without hindrance or nation which has fought valiantly to preserve its identity,
restraint; faculty or power to do as one likes.’ Moreover, language and culture. The demands of prosody, and, indeed,
states the OED, the root meaning of the word is ‘desire’, cf. the varying styles of the poets featured here have, however,
the cognate Sanskrit lub-dhas ‘desirous’. For ‘freedom’, on demanded some fluidity and variation, rather than adopting
the other hand, the OED definitions include: ‘1. …personal one single rendering throughout.
liberty… 4.a. The state of being able to act without…
For translating an anthology is a somewhat more complex
restraint… liberty of action… 5. The quality of being free
task than rendering the works of a single author. For with
from the control of fate or necessity; the power of self-
one author, in spite of the variations in style and vocabulary
determination…’ Moreover, freedom derives from a
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demanded by different genres and subjects or associated considerable latitude regarding the consonants. In these
with increasing maturity, one is dealing, basically, with a translations, I have used half-rhymes of both type — and,
single idiom. In this collection, however, we have more than indeed, found the Belarusian convention particularly useful
100 poets, ranging from the most eminent in contemporary — granted that of the two key words of this collection,
Belarusian literature down to those who would hardly ‘freedom’ rhymes exactly only with the Biblical ‘Edom’ and
claim to be poets at all — but who, in the name of freedom, ‘liberty’ only with ‘flibberty’ (as in ‘flibberty-gibbet’)
were inspired to try their hand. If one believes, as I do, that neither of which have much relevance to the task in hand!
in translating poetry one should try to render not only the
Other poetic ‘ornaments’ — alliteration, internal echoes —
sense, but also the style, then with every poem one has to
to say nothing of the repeated RA-syllables of Viera
make new assessments as to what the poet’s own stylistic
Burłak’s poem — I have also tried to reproduce, feeling, as I
criteria were and how they should be rendered; whether the
do, that these effects are intrinsic to the poems. At the same
language is formal or colloquial, whether there are
time, these versions are basically line-for-line with the
conscious ‘poeticisms’ or archaisms, current slang, or even
original, and as close as may be to the original sense.
on occasion lapses into ‘politically correct’ jargon.
Certainly, some words are not always rendered in the same
Likewise, if one aims (as I do) to preserve the verse-form of way — indeed, to do so would fail to convey the impact of
the original, one needs to analyse the authors own style to the original. Consider the Belarusian word ‘kaścioł’. This
decide what compromises may have to be made — and has the specific meaning of a Roman Catholic church. But
whether they can be justified. In general, I have tried not to translate it so on every occasion would be not only
only to preserve the rhyme-scheme of the original, but also clumsy, but would lose the intended impact of the original.
the distinction between ‘masculine’ (single-syllable) and For in Janka Łajkoū’s poem ‘Do not weep…’ ‘kaścioł’ is used
‘feminine’ rhymes. However, in some cases, there have been in juxtaposition to ‘carkva’ (Orthodox church) to symbolize
other, overriding considerations. Thus, in the poem of the whole range of Christian faiths, as opposed to the
Antanina Chatenka, ‘I accept Thy will, O God’, it seemed ‘pagoda’, representing the non-Christian faiths. The best
more important to preserve the permutations of the opening equivalent, it seemed to me, would be the traditional
line as it is repeated throughout the poem — even if some of English contrast of ‘church’ and ‘chapel’. On the other
the feminine rhymes of the original had to be replaced by hand, in Michalina’s poem, the ‘kaścioł’ referred to — that of
masculine. Rhyme is, indeed, one of the major technical St Anne in Vilnia — for a Belarusian immediately evokes
problems in working from Belarusian. Luckily, both English the image of a particular jewel of Gothic architecture — and
and Belarusian are amenable to ‘half-rhymes’ and it seemed more important here to stress the building’s
assonances, although working on a different principle. The artistic impact than its denominational allegiance. Again, in
English ear will readily respond to a near-rhyme where the Alena Siarko’s poem, with its mysterious moon-lit cemetery
consonants agree (a prime example being the numerous and the figures vanishing into the shadows: to render
hymns which ‘rhyme’ ‘Lord’ and ‘Word’) — in Belarusian, ‘kaścioł’ by ‘church’ would tend to give the impression that
provided the vowels are exact echoes of each other, there is the graveyard is relatively small — like those still found
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beside old parish churches in England. But the Kalvaryja is
an extensive urban cemetery. To preserve the author’s
vision, therefore, it seemed better to render ‘kaścioł’ by the
term one would use for the analogous building in an English
city cemetery, namely ‘chapel’ — even though, due to the
post-Soviet shortage of church buildings in Miensk, the
‘kaścioł’ in the Kalvaryja is in fact being used as a Catholic
parish-church. Perhaps the above discussion of a single
word may seem over-lengthy and pedantic. I hope, however,
that it will serve to illustrate yet again the fact that
translation is — or should be — an art. Not, perhaps, as great
poems
an art as the creation of original literature, but nevertheless,
not a mere mechanical reproduction.
Vera Rich
London 25.X.2003
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p o e m s o n l i b e r t y p o e m s o n l i b e r t y
Сьвятаяна Śviatajana
Год за годам між нетраў і неба Year by year, between abyss and heaven
адкрываецца думка-Сусьвет. a thought-Universe is unveiled.
Мох і дрэва, вужакі і птах — Moss and wood, bird and snake —
адзінокага зерня шлях. is the path the lone grain must take.
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p o e m s o n l i b e r t y p o e m s o n l i b e r t y
Вы прыналежыце моцы, і перашкода для вас You belong to strength, and obstacle is but a support
апора. for you.
Цьвёрды ваш крок, пераможныя вашы ўчынкі, Your step is firm, your deeds are victorious,
і постаці вашы згодна ўрастаюць у сталь. and your form grows accordingly into steel.
У рулі і ў жэрлы ўкладаецца перавага. The advantage goes to the control-arm and the muzzle.
Ловяць люстэркі адлюстраваньні таго, што мае Mirrors catch the mirrorings of that which shall come
настаць. to pass.
На сьценах дымныя цені. On the walls are smoky shadows.
На бруку разьбітая чарапіца. On the cobbles are broken roof-tiles.
У неба сьпявае гром. In the sky the thunder sings.
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p o e m s o n l i b e r t y p o e m s o n l i b e r t y
У цёмным пакоі з зачыненай форткай In the dark room with the tightly-closed window,
Я спажываю асобнае шчасьце. There I can relish my own fortune’s kindness.
У маіх акулярах — уласная цемра, Here in my spectacles is my own darkness,
І ўласнае сонца мне вочы засьціць. My own sun dazzles my eyes into blindness.
Там, за дзьвярыма, — шлях да няволі Outside the door is the path to unfreedom.
Агульнага кроку, агульнага сьпеву, One common step, common singing together,
Тут, у пакоі, мне лёгка і проста, Here in the room all is light for me, simple,
Тут, у пакоі, — прыватнае неба. Here in the room is my own private heaven.
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p o e m s o n l i b e r t y p o e m s o n l i b e r t y
Свабода — Freedom
Слабо да- Is feebly
йсьці To struggle
Па асьці, Over stubble
Па жарсьцьве And rubble
Да мяжы тае, To reach that bourne set
Дзе душа даўгі аддае Where the soul pays its due debts
Звышняму, To the High One
Які ў ёй жыве. Who lives in it yet.
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я вырвуся і будзе ўсё надзвычайна I break out and all will be extraordinary
я буду моцнай і пасьлядоўнай I shall be strong and constant
за свабоду плацілі і жыцьці for freedom some paid with their lives
у мяне зноў не хапіла моцы but again my strength did not suffice
які ўжо раз не хапіла моцы one more time my strength did not suffice
яна зноў прамільгнула побач and again darted by in a twinkling
гэтая няўлоўная птушка that uncatchable bird
я застаюся тут and I remain here
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Мы, беларусы, заўжды гатовы We, Belarusians, have always been ready
снапамі класьці свае галовы. like sheaves of grain to lay our own heads down.
Было спакон так, і гэтак будзе — Ever it was so and ever shall be so,
такі народ мы, такія людзі. for such a folk, such a nation are we, lo!
Наш час спыніўся між дзьвюх Нямігаў, Our time stopped ’twixt two Niamiha disasters,
дзе кроў і сёньня стаіць па грудзі... from which the blood remains, still breast-high
Мы, беларусы, народ ад ліха, flowing.
ад Бога — толькі сьвятыя людзі. We, Belarusians, are surely sin’s bastards.
From God come forth only folk who are holy.
Яны былі ў нас, былі і будуць —
Рагнеда, Янка, Максім, Ларыса... We had them once, will have them one day, too;
Мы, беларусы, народ аблудны — Rahnieda, Janka, Maksim and Łarysa,
сваёй радзінай не ганарымся. we, Belarusians, a nation lost, straying,
pride in our homeland we have not, nor miss it.
У нашых душах гуляе вецер...
Каму мы служым? Чые мы дзеці? And through our souls a wind ever is blowing.
На храмах нашых маўчаць званіцы. Whom do we serve? Whose sons are we? Past
Нямая вера — як нам маліцца? knowing!
Now in our shrines all the belfries stand mutely.
Як дараваньня прасіць у Бога, Our faith is dumb. So how can we pray, truly?
каб Ён вярнуў мне сябе самога.
Хрыстос калісьці хадзіў між намі... How beseech God, His forgiveness imploring,
Мы, беларусы, Яго прагналі. that He’ll give back to me my own self, restoring,
in olden days Christ once walked among us…
З нас, беларусаў, яшчэ спытаюць — We, Belarusians, drove Him out from us.
за лёс Страціма, за сымбаль Краю.
Чаму у сэрцы з такім адчаем We, Belarusians, by questions are haunted
нас б’е Пагоня, сячэ мячамі... of the Stracim-Swan’s fate, and symbols of our
Country.
Мы — Беларусы, ці — янычары? Why in the heart so deeply despairing
does the knight strike us with swords he is bearing...
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Чацьверты кожны з нас стаў зямлёю... Every fourth one has returned to the dust now,
Чарнобыль чыніць над намі кару. Chernobyl holds us still in its prison,
Мы, Беларусы, сваёй крывёю We, Belarusians, with our blood must now
сабе здабудзем Краіну-мару. build for ourselves our Country, our vision.
Краіну-мару, дзе мы ўваскрэсьнем, Our vision Country where once more we’ll rise, like
як сонца з хмары, як мова зь песьні. language from song, or sun from clouded skies, then,
Краіну-мару сабе здабудзем our vision Country to build shall endeavour
мы, Беларусы. Мы — ёсьць! Мы будзем! we, Belarusians. We are! Shall be ever!
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Адной вадой сьвянціў іх кат — One stream (Śvisłač? Cna?) was used
ці сьвіслацкай? Ці цнянскай? as hangman’s holy water,
Адной пятлёй зьвязаў вас гад — and the snake bound you in one noose —
крывёю хрысьціянскай. the blood of Christians slaughtered.
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Генік вярнуўся з апраметнай Расеі. Hienik came back from darkest Russia,
Браў там, he had raked it in,
дзе з краніка проста ў кішэню сьцякалі грашыскі. money flowed from the tap straight into his pocket.
Колькі набраўся, But whatever he raked in,
столькі пакінуў сяброўцы. he left it all for his girlfriend.
Так абдурыў ён Расею — That’s how he fooled Russia,
наняў у ахову жанчыну. hired a woman as a guard.
Генік вярнуўся з драпежнаю кайстрай — Hienik came back with a hunter’s game-bag.
вандроўнік. A wanderer.
Сварыцца бацька: His father picked a quarrel:
ня бачыць крыжоў на магілах. he did not see the crosses on the graves.
Хлопцы адтуль не вяртаюцца, Lads do not come back from there,
нават ў трунах. not even in coffins.
Генік вучыў там законы — Hienik had studied the laws there,
ня жыў па законах. did not live by the laws, though.
Там выдаюцца, There laws are issued
там вучаць, and studied,
там прадаюцца законы, and sold.
там па законах нялюдзкіх жывуць. There they live by inhuman laws.
Але Генік аб гэтым маўчыць. But Hienik kept quiet about it.
Брату і братавай котцы майструе кватэру, For his brother and brother’s cat, he was boss of the
рай у гаёчку знаходзіць, apartment,
адхланьне ў касьцёле. he found paradise in a spinney,
Генік Жыбар. Матыль. a breathing-space in a church.
Дыялектнае прозьвішча дзеда Hienik Žybar. A moth.
польскі праўнік запольшчыў на Żyber, His grandfather’s dialect surname
расейскі зрасеіў на Жибер. a Polish official polonized into Żyberz,
Тут адступае Расея. a Russian one russified it into Zhiber.
Вяртаецца Польшча, Russia went hence,
зноў саступае Расеі, Poland returned,
Жыбару месца няма. Russia came back again.
Генік — душа да нябёсаў маленькага краю — No place for Žybar.
чуе: Hienik, a soul for the heaven of a small country
hears:
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дзяды, бурдукі, бандары, супраны, махраі, скрагі, Ancestors, all those Burduks and Bandars, Suprans
бурносы, шнакі, бакасы, пінчукі, карабаны, and Machraj’s and Skragas.
петрашы, самардакі, жамойды, габрушчыкі, Burnoses and Špaks, those Bakases, Pinčuks and
жыбары, жыбары, жыбары, жыбары, жыбары… Karabans,
Petrašes and Samardaks, Žamoids too and the
Habruščyks,
and Žybars, Žybars, Žybars, Žybars, Žybars…
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Гісторыя нам незалежнасьць падарыла, History with independence now has dowered us,
Прынесла нам свой дар велікадушны; Gave us its gift magnanimous and splendid,
Здавалася б, што незалежнасьць гэта сіла, And, so it seemed, independence was a power
Вакол якой мы станем мурам непарушным. Around which we became a wall unbreached,
defending.
Ды мы так доўга у няволі прабывалі,
But we have so long in servitude existed
Што палюбілі на сабе ланцуг жахлівы,
That we have grown fond of these our fearful fetters,
Які цары далі; яго умоцніў Сталін,
The Tsars gave them, then Stalin more firmly fixed
Сказаўшы, што ў няволі чалавек шчасьлівы.
them,
Saying slavery for man is far, far better.
І мы саромемся таго, чым трэба ганарыцца,
Сваёй душы, ў якой ірдзіцца непаўторнасьць. We are now ashamed of that which we should honour.
Замест таго, каб за свабоду стойка біцца, Of our soul that sparkles with its own uniqueness,
Мы рвемся ў цемру, а ня ў сонечнасьць We do not stand firm for freedom, but rush on now
і зорнасьць. Not to sun and starshine, but to dark
and bleakness.
Жывем мы на зямлі зь нявольніцкай пакорай
І любім той ланцуг, які хрыбты дратуе, And we live on earth in a slavish meekness,
І з сувэрэннасьці ізноў ірвемся ў гора, And we love the fetters on our backs aye pressing,
І роднага свайго зь няволі не ратуем. We flee sovereignty, a return to sorrow seeking,
And what is our own from slavery we’ll not rescue.
Як паўсьляпыя, мы брыдзем у цемру глыбей
І не шукаем да свабоды сьветлае дарогі. As if semiblind, we wander in deep gloom now,
Нас фатум прыдавіў нявольніцкаю глыбай, And we do not seek for the bright road to freedom.
Забылі, што жывем на сьвеце з волі Бога. And fate has bestowed on us a slavish tombstone,
And the fact that we live by God’s will we heed not.
На моладзь, на яе, уся надзея наша,
Што ўскалыхнецца і уздымецца з каленяў, On our youth, on them, all our hope’s depending,
І стане, як адзін, ад Полацку аж да Падляшша, That they’ll rise up from their knees, that they stand
І рынецца у бой за справу адраджэньня. tall now,
From Połacak to Padlašša they will strive defending
The cause of renaissance, united one and all now.
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Гісторыя нам падарыла сувэрэннасьць, History has dowered us now with sovereign status,
Як каравай маладажонам у нас дораць. Like a bridal loaf presented it as gift,
Дык выкідайма з душ нявольніцкую беднасьць Let us cleanse our souls of this poverty so slavish
І падымайма зрок да сонца і да зорак. And to the sun and stars once more our eyes we’ll lift.
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на тое — што нас не абголіць, Hope that no one will shave us,
ня вымачыць, не ачухоніць, nor soak us, nor come to enslave us,
не аблавушыць наш род. nor turn our kin stupid as blocks.
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Чуеш гэты цяжар і боль у сэрцы? Do you feel this weight and pain in your heart?
Гэта не хвароба, не. This is no sickness, no.
Гэта сэрца нагадвае табе, This is the heart reminding you
за што змагацца павінен, for what you ought to strive,
каб апомніўся і ня траціў жыцьцё дарэмна, so you’ll come to your senses and not waste your life
каб не саромеўся сказаць, дзе жывеш, in vain,
каб упэўнена йшоў ты наперад, so you’ll not blush to say where you live,
каб не пабаяўся заклікаць да барацьбы so you’ll go forward in certainty.
народ свой нясьмелы So you’ll not fail to call to the fray
ды ашалелы ад жаху. your people, unbold
Яны стаміліся, як і ты, and crazed with terror.
жыць вось так, They too have grown weary, like you,
ня бачаць ужо сьвятла ў цемры. of living this way,
А трэба з каленяў падняцца, устаць they still see no light in the darkness.
ды паказаць сваю сілу і моц Time to get up from your knees and stand tall,
сабе і цэламу сьвету. and show forth your strength and your might
to yourself and to the whole world.
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Неба ластаўкі рэжуць пад корань Swallows cleave the air, deeply dipping,
Перад бурай з трывожным піскам, Before the storm, with shrill cries of distress,
Быццам мала ім стала прасторы, As if space for them had become too constricting,
Быццам неба іх так прыціснула, As if so heavily the skies pressed them,
Што дыхнуць ім ні кроплі нельга As if in the lovely but stifling zenith
У прыгожай сьпякотнай высі, They could breathe no drop into their lungs
І яны, узмываючы ў неба, So that soaring into the heavens,
Хочуць крыламі іскры высекчы. They want to strike sparks with their wings.
Вось і сёньня рэжуць пад корань So today they cleave the air, deeply dipping,
Крыльлем тонкім і вострым як нож… With their wings, like knives sharp and thin.
Неба. Ластаўкі над разорамі. Sky. Swallows over the furrows flicking.
Мусіць, хутка ізноў дождж… Soon, now, the rain will begin.
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І брамнік Пётра кварту поўную And gate-keeper Peter from that barrel
нацэдзіць з бочкі той. draws a brimming quart.
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іржой rust
пераела has eaten through
ключ у дзьвярах замкнутых знадворку і таму the key to those doors locked from outside and hence
хата здаецца пакінутай але гэта ня так: the house appears abandoned but not so:
праз разьбітыя шыбіны through the shattered window-panes
асядае пыл з далёкіх гасьцінцаў вецер страсае dust from the distant highways settles the wind shakes
на падлогу падзяўбаны птушкамі чарнасьліў down
у паштовай скрыні ляжыць сатлелы ліст on to the floor prunes the birds neglected
ад мяне — некалькі літар мурашы in the mailbox lies a mouldering letter
ужо сьцягнулі from me — the ants have already thieved
several characters
помніш —
некалі я крэсьліў на вадзе: НІЧОГА НЯ БУДЗЕ do you recall
а ты once I wrote on water: NOTHING WILL COME OF IT
прыціскала да грудзей (бліжэй да шыі) but you
маленькія тонкія рукі быццам баялася pressed your small thin hands to your breasts
што я табе (closer to your neck) as if afraid
нешта зраблю? that I would do something
to you?
так яно і цяпер:
у пукатыя вочы статуй кідаецца гурма and so it is now:
груганоў і дні ня хочуць пакінуць самому сабе into the bulging eyes of a statue a cast
таго чыё семя так і не прарасло of ravens dives, and the days do not wish to leave
каму to himself the one whose seed never sprouted —
мы маўчым? for whom
ноч прынесла цемру як чорнае гольле do we keep silence?
чырвоныя рукі the night has brought darkness like black branches
пабачаць цела scarlet hands
так мы толькі рукі якімі нехта will see the body
трымае вуглі! so we are only the hands by which someone
holds lives!
будзе сьвяціцца ў куце абраз
in the corner an icon will gleam
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…і мучыцца парастку й зерню пакуль …and the shoot and the grain will suffer until
мы праваленым ротам шапялявім «каханьне» our ruined mouths mumble the word ‘love’
але but
чуеш: гудзе do you hear: hooting
у кроснах чарэшняў? in the loom of the cherry-trees?
гэта this
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Вялізнае A gigantic
чырвонае red
вока eye
Хоча Wants
у мяне to pierce
залезьці into me
І прачытаць And to read
усе думкі all my thoughts
І пазбавіць мяне And steal my power
зроку to see
Каб застацца ў мяне And so become
адзіным the only
Самым Most precious
каштоўным eye
вокам. for me.
Але я яго But I shall make blind
асьляплю its sight
І нават прадзіраўлю Even pierce through
чырвань. the redness.
І зь яго And from it
пацячэ there will
вонкі flow
Нешта глеістае. Something viscous.
Мабыць то — Maybe this is
ягоныя мазгі. its brains.
Хай цяпер Now let
усе all people
глядзяць see
Што было знутры What was within
ў той пачвары that monster
Хай цяпер Now let
тое вока the piercing
зыркатае eye
Расплюшчвае сябе Open itself
дзеля натоўпу! for the crowd!
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тупік dead-end
перад вачыма before the eyes
гладкі smooth
квадратны and square
тупы тупік dead blunt dead-end
і зьлева to left
і справа and to right
і зьверху and above
і са сьпінаў and behind
мы — птушаняты цаглінаў we are unhatched chicks of brickwork
і хіба ж палова and maybe one half
глупотных of us senseless
нямоглых and strengthless
згадуе with brain
дзюбы і думы and beak will wreak
для праклёну perdition
тупіковай on this dead-end
скарупы shell
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Проста ўзяць нож і адрэзаць сваю галаву Just take a knife and chop off your own head
Лепш на марозе — ня так балюча Best when it’s frosty — that’s not so painful
Гэта — прывітаньне чабанам This is a greeting for a shepherd
Чырвоная лава льецца на трон Red lava is flowing on to the throne
Выціснуць вочы пальцамі Put out your eyes with your fingers
І пагуляць ў спортлято And then play the lottery
А калі да цябе прырасьце жанчына And if a woman should start growing into you
Трэба яе таксама адрэзаць чымсьці She too must be cut off in someway or other
Гэта — не салют This is no firework
Гэта — я самурай люты This is I, the fierce samurai
Гэта — тайфун This is a typhoon
Мець у руках тысячы ангельскіх фунтаў To have a grip on thousands of pounds sterling
Шчыліць жоўтыя зубы To snarl with yellow teeth
Біць дыктатара правай і левай нагой Kick the dictator with right foot and left
Каб і ягоныя вочы кінуць на лятатрон So as to throw his eyes in the tombola
Ці гэта не прыродны рэфлекс? Is this not a natural reflex?
Ставіць на вушы чыноўнікаў кляксы To put blots on the ears of officials
Каб з атраманту зварылася каша So that porridge will be boiled from ink
Потым цудоўна глядзець на карціну Ван Гога Then wonderfully look at a Van Gogh
З марыхуанай загарнуўшыся ў тогу Wrapped in marijuana like a toga
Гэта — свабоды вагон This is the carriage of freedom
А не бабы з вадой Not beans with water
І потым доўга трымаць адказ перад Богам Then stand for long responsible to God
За свой дубовы бадун і свабоду For your oak hangover and for freedom
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Уявіце: Be it known:
я, I
і мае пупы, and my navels
і пупы пупоў маіх and my navels’ navels
глядзяць на вас observe you from
зь неба. on high.
Ніхто не схаваецца No one can hide himself
ад іхнага пільнага позірку. from this diligent scanning.
Не, гэта ня я раствараюся ў аблоках — No, you do not see me dissolving in clouds —
гэта аблокі расплываюцца ўва мне! it is clouds dissolving in me!
Што? What?
Вы ня верыце ў маё Don’t you believe in my
ўсепупейшае пупства, all-navelish naveldom,
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у маё in my
найпаўнейшае supernalism of
найпупоўнейшае пупейства, supernavelmost navelity,
у маё in my
архiпуповае апупенства? archinavel navelescence?
Тады спытайцеся ў таго, Then go, ask the man who reached
хто зламаў палец аб неба. for the sky and broke his finger.
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Чалавек — зь веку ў век — быў часовасьць, From age to age man was but a temporality,
Пабудова з крупінак турботы. Grains and cares in a construct fleeting,
Рэчаіснасьць і дух крышталёвы — Spirit of crystal and reality
Гэта ўсё чалавек, не істота. Man thus entire — not a mere creature.
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зялёныя вочы яе гэта рухі ў нябесную Her green eyes are movements in heavenly
несьвядомасьць. Мы ішлі па блакітнай даліне consciousness. We went through the blue valley,
ламаючы цені шкляных зорак і трушчачы breaking the shadows of glassy stars and shattering
чыгуновых карлікаў. Дождж які падае iron dwarves. The rain, falling upward, was turning
зьнізу ўверх пераўтвараўся ў фаервэрк into fireworks for the Day of Sweet Freedom. And
на Дзень Салодкае волі. Потым усё зьнікла then everything disappeared, and the catafalque
і катафальк з кавалачкамі мяне рушыў назад bearing fragments of myself moved backwards,
раскалоўшы твой сон. shattering your dream.
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— Пудзіла, пудзіла, што ты вартуеш? ‘Scarecrow, O scarecrow, what are you guarding?’
— Тайну дзяржавы, ня бачыш — замок! ‘State secrets! There is the lock, don’t you see!’
— Зрэбнае пудзіла, хлеў твой пустуе, ‘Your byre is empty, you rag-and-bone warden,
а гаспадар задушыўся знарок. and your master has gone hanged himself from a tree!
Люду анучамі служаць штандары, Banners now serve as toe-rags for the people,
золата трону паела іржа, rust has eroded the gold of the throne,
цьвільлю па сьценах поўзаюць мары, on the walls phantoms like mildew are creeping,
рэчы, як войска, упокат ляжаць. things, like an army, lie flat in a row.
Толькі і скарбаў тваіх — тыя дзьверы, These doors are your only treasure. Come, shoot then,
стрэльма з ручніцы ў іржавы замок! Musket-fire that rusty lock will release!’
Пудзіла ў неба глядзіць зь недаверам, Scarecrow stares up at the sky, filled with doubting.
Бог рытарычнай фігурай замоўк. Like trope of rhetoric, God holds his peace.
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Завагайся, дасканалае Тварэньне, Wage your fight, perfect Creature, so to break the
Нечуванасьці дасьціпных слоў і нот — Inaudibility of notes, wit, words, —
Каб збудзіліся былыя пакаленьні, So that past generations will be wakened,
І картавы Бог-маўчун разявіў рот! The lisping Silence-God make himself heard!
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У катоўні маёй пазгнівалі ўсе сьцены, In my torture-chamber the walls have all mouldered,
І разьбегліся вязьні ў чатыры бакі, The prisoners escaped and are fled far and wide,
Толькі кат — сумны комік — забыты на сцэне, Only the torturer, sad clown, forgotten,
У крывавым адзеньні стаіць ля ракі. In bloodstained garb stands at the Riverside.
Сьмешна ўсё: All is laughable:
Столькі болю, пакуты і енку So much pain, suffering, grieving,
Зьнікла ў марыве мокрай, дажджлівай зімы In the damp mists of wet winters was lost,
І сплыло ціхім вечарам ў сумную Лету, Flowed on a calm evening down to sad Lethe,
Пакідаючы патлы іржавай травы. Leaving but patches of rusty-red grass.
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Нас вяртаюць аблокі і плыні туды, Clouds and streams bring us back to the flow
Дзе на хвалі дрыжыць Where on the waves
каламуць залатая. golden flotsam will quiver.
Мы — вада, а зямля прарастае з вады… We are water – from water earth grows
Скрозь суквецьці, Through flower-heads
і крылы, and wings,
і кроў and blood
Прарастае. It grows ever.
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Ля возера стаіць старая ліпа, There at the lakeside stands an old lime-tree,
з усіх бакоў яна відаць здалёку, far and wide it can be seen in the distance,
і сьнег і дождж яе не абмінаюць. snow and rain do not pass by nor ignore it,
Гадуюць ліпу высьвіст, шчэбет, клёкат. tended it is by bird cries, trills and twitters.
Шуміць лісьцё, ласкава шэпчуць травы, The lime leaves rustle, the grass gently whispers,
ўсіх сонца грэе промнямі сваімі. and the sun warms all, its bright rays shedding,
Дарогаю жыцьця праходзяць людзі, there on life’s highway the people are passing,
адно што ліпа не гаворыць зь імі. but to speak with them the lime is not ready.
А колькі адышло людзей, якія But there come, also, other folk wishing
пад ліпаю густой адпачывалі, ’neath the thick lime-leaves to pass their leisure.
сяляне — беларусы з цыганамі — The village folk, Belarusians and Roma,
і весяліліся і гаравалі. gather to talk and so take their pleasure.
Каб на сваёй зямлі стаяць трывала, So to stand firm on the earth here, the lime-tree
пусьціла ліпа карані глыбока, let down its roots, in the soil set them deeply,
усіх яна ў завеі цьветам лечыць, in winter’s blasts its blossoms bring healing,
асьцерагаючы ад злога вока. safe from the evil eye it will keep you.
Ні сквару, ні ўрагану не баіцца, Neither the squall nor the tempest affright it,
нястомная на ўскоце, на закоце. sunrise and sunset weary it never,
У ліпе пазнаю я лёс цыганскі I find in the lime-tree the fate of the Roma,
у скразьняках, у холадзе, у слоце. in storm and sleet and chill winter weather.
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Божа, калі ўжо й мяне God, when Thy finger shall shake
Перст Твой, як яблык, страсе — Me, like apple down from the tree,
Хай яшчэ раз сьлізгане Grant that round that dark thatch my shade
Цень мой па цёмнай страсе. One last time may glide quietly.
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Яна была ўсяго… Свабода. And she was… Liberty. Nothing other.
І што хацела — ўсё магла: And she achieved all that she tried:
дайсьці да царскага ківота, reached a royal throne in her endeavour,
стаць калыханкаю арла. became the eagle’s lullaby.
Яна была ўсяго… Свабода And she was… Liberty. Nothing other.
у інтэр’еры барыкад… Behind the barricades in place…
Дачка францускага народа… True daughter she of France, her mother,
Ды толькі мае мой пагляд. and yet she wears my very face.
Яна ўжо ў Край наш шпарка йдзе! And now she’s speeding to our land!
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Свой шэры колер бачым мы Our own grey colour meets our eyes,
Удзень і ўноч, зімой і ўлетку, Day, night, summer, winter — it bounds us.
Ідзем, забыўшыся куды, We go forgetting whither, why,
Ня чуем і ня бачым сьвету. Nor see nor hear the world around us.
Жыцьцё, ты шлях усім шляхам, Life, you are path of all paths clear,
Дарог асфальтавых бясконцасьць. Infinity of asphalt highways,
Мы сілы аддаем гадам, We give our forces to the years
Каб толькі раз убачыць сонца. To see but once the sunlight shining.
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Туга па дрэвах, смутак па вадзе, Yearning for trees, sadness for water,
вада — штодзённа, дрэва — гэта сьвята. water is workaday, wood is a festival.
Вада — штодзённа, дрэвам ёсьць пачатак, Water is workaday, wood is a beginning
і ёсьць канца такіх дакладны дзень. and for them both a final day is fixed.
Рух плаўніка нагадвае узмах, A fin moves — memories of wing-beats stir,
не паралельна рыбіна і птах, they are not parallel, fish and the bird,
не напалову рыбіна і птах, not turn and turn about, fish and the bird,
не напалову, адначасова. not turn and turn, but simultaneous.
Адначасова — рыбіна і птушка, Simultaneously fish and bird.
Гасподзь нас тым аднойчы парадніў, The Lord of old decreed this gift for us,
што не разьбіў падзелам нашы душы, that He would not split our souls by division,
вада і дрэва вымяраюць дні. and wood and water measure out the days.
Калі не сьвяткаваць адзін адное, And if there be not mutual celebration,
што іншае ім сьвяткаваць з табою? what other way to celebrate with you?
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Я ня плачу па тым, што мінула, For what is past I do not weep now,
як ня плачуць крыжы на кладах. crosses on gravestones shed no tears.
Ува мне мая цемра заснула, In me, my darkness fell asleep now,
ува мне разгараецца Шлях... in me a blazing Path appears.
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На маёй дарозе — толькі сьнег, On this road of mine there is but snow,
Над маёй дарогай — толькі Бог. Above this road of mine there is but God.
Пакідаю свой самотны сьлед. And I leave my lonely trail to show.
Кожны крок — нібы цераз парог. Each step — as if across a threshold trod.
А вакол — краіна ціха сьпіць, And all round the country softly sleeps,
Ціха замятае сьлед зіма. Quietly winter sweeps the trail away,
І на прыдарожныя слупы And the roadside posts no longer keep
Нават ліхтароў у нас няма. Any lamps to light us on our way.
Цёмна — толькі ветаха сьвятло Dark. Only light of a waning moon,
Беднае, як бедны гэты край. Poor as our land is poor, to aid our eyes.
І сьляды Пагоні замяло And the Knight’s trail was swept away too soon
Па дарозе ў пекла — альбо ў рай. On this road to hell or paradise.
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Хам вярнуўся на родныя гоні Ham came back to his native furrows,
З апраметнай — і проста на трон, Up from Hades, on to a throne.
Нібы статак, анёлаў ён гоніць Drove out the angels, like sheep in a flurry,
Прочкі ў ноч, у нявер’е, на скон. Into the night, into no-faith, — begone!
Сьцеле кветкамі ў храмы дарогі, He strewed the path to the shrine with fresh flowers,
Крыж цалуе ў хлусьлівай журбе, Kissed the cross as he shed lying tears.
Хоць даўно ён ня ведае Бога, Though he acknowledges no divine power,
Бо прызначыў ён Богам сябе. He has deemed himself God through long years.
Колькі людцаў служакамі сталі?!. How many folk he turned into helots!
Ім ачмурана столькі галоў!.. How long has he fooled them with his deceit!
Ну а тых, хто яго не прызналі, — And those who are not his fans and his zealots
На пакуты, у турмы, у роў. — Into fetters and prison and pit.
Вось табе і карона, і скіпэтар, Here for you is crown and a sceptre,
А табе — хіба дуля, народ. And two fingers for you, nation dear!
Усьміхаецца з трона Люцыпар: From the throne Lucifer smiles, so deceptive:
«Я прыйшоў не на дзень, не на год, ‘I’ve come not for a day or a year!
Да сьвятла я вас вывесьці мушу, Forth into the light I will lead you,
Паказаць вам, дзе ваш агарод, Show to you where your garden lies,
Адбяру ваш і розум, і душы, From soul and reason I’ll dis-impede you,
Ды напоўню ваш прагны жывот. And fulfil all your bellies’ desires.
Што вам воля і што вам свабода? Why need you liberty? And why freedom?
Лепш жыцьцё без турбот і трывог». Life is better without cares or fear.’
І мільённае чуецца: «Згода!» Million-fold the cry echoed: ‘Agreed then!’
І грыміць па-над сьветам: «Наш Бог!» Over the earth thundered: ‘Our God is here!’
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Шукаю Цябе ў паднябесьсі далёкім, I have sought Thee in the vast expanses ’neath heaven,
ў скляпеньнях сінечы над галавой, in the high vaulting of blue overhead,
шукаю на вулках, змрочных і вузкіх, I have sought Thee in by-ways, gloomy and narrow,
шукаю ў сьвятынях, гатычных, высозных, sought Thee in Gothic shrines, soaring to heaven,
шукаю ў капліцах і ля крыжоў, sought Thee in chapels and where crosses stand.
у тварах шукаю, блізкіх і родных, In faces akin and close to me sought ever.
прыветных усьмешках, далонях сяброў. In smiles of true welcome and in friendly hands.
У сьнег і завею, слату і нягоду, In snow and in tempests, in sleet and grey weather,
сонечным днём, у самотную ноч, in days filled with sunshine and in lonely nights
шукаю Цябе, бо ведаю добра — I have sought Thee, knowing in my endeavour
Ты дзесьці ёсьць блізка, зрабіць толькі крок. thou art close at hand, and one step will suffice.
Шукаю, мой Божа, Цябе гэтак доўга, I have sought Thee, my God, so long, forgetting
забыўшы, што ўсё да крупінкі, that everything to the very last morsel,
усё да апошняе кроплі — everything to the last droplet,
пры мне, ува мне, па-за мною. by me, within me, beyond me,
Усё гэта — Ты. all this — is Thee.
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Бела-беднай як трываць галубцы? How shall she exist, weak white dove?
Як трымаць надзею? How persist, hope unceasing?
Паласа пунсовая на грудцы When on her breast a red groove
Крывянее. Is bleeding.
Аж дасюль страляюць і страляюць And the shots, and the shots fill the sky,
Галубоў, Aimed at doves,
Што лётаць сьмеласьць маюць. That still have the boldness to fly.
Гэты добры край зялёнабровы, This good land, with green brows curving,
Што ўмывацца звык Accustomed to bathe
Крынічнаю вадой, In the freshet’s clear flow,
Замятае завірухай папяловай, Is swept by snowstorms of ash, whirling
Чорнаю бядой. Black woe.
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Чалавек аднойчы выйшаў з дому… Once a man departed from his home…
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а падасца — гаманілі званіцы and it seems that there are belfries that re-echo
бы хацелі да кагось дазваніцца as if they desired to call someone they beckon
і падобныя да сноў распавесьці and like to a vision brought in sleep they tender
пра жыцьцё тамтэйшае весткі news that speaks of life out there yonder
можа ў сьне а можа ў яве аднойчы whether sleeping or awake someone will surely
хтось адплюшчыць праясьнёныя вочы one day open eyes that can see more clearly
і ў азуравае ўвойдзе сьвітаньне and will enter in dawn’s azure streaming
і званіцы залатыя застане and will reach those belfries gold-gleaming
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Я думаў, што Свабода — гэта жах, I thought that Freedom is that dread
Калі ўсе палезуць на машыны When everyone climbs on to lorries,
І пазьбягаюць ў іншыя краіны, Before our eyes abroad they scurry,
Пакінуць нас на нашых жа вачах. Leaving us here when they are fled.
Я думаў, што Свабода — гэта цень I thought that Freedom is the shade
Вясны і сонца, цень былога шчасьця. Of spring and sun, happiness past,
Я думаў, што Свабода — гэта дзень, I thought that Freedom is the day
Ў які даўно мы марылі папасьці. That we’ve long dreamed to reach at last.
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Ты сам пераводзіш стрэлкі гадзіньніка Thou Thyself hast reset the hands of the timepiece
бясконцых сусьветаў таемных лёсаў. of infinite universes, of fates mystic.
Ты сам — бэтлеемская чаканая зорка, Thou Thyself art our Bethlehem star, long-awaited,
запаленая над прачыстай дугою kindled high over that purest of arches
вялікаснай дамовы з чалавекам. of the great covenant made with humanity.
Ты сам — непазнавальны, усяісны, Thou art unfathomable, omnipresent,
кожнаму зычыш свае перамены, rendering unto each one his own changes,
еднасьць у сьвятле абяцаеш. unity in the light Thou dost promise.
Вынайдзі ж апраўданьне і мне, Even for me then find justification,
чэмернай, горкае кроплі a bitter drop and chimeric
ў шчодрай задуме пра чалавецтва, in the generous plan for humanity,
мне й усім, каго ў сэрцы трымаю, for me and for all I hold in my heart’s keeping,
і ўсім, да каго ня маю любові and for all those for whom I have not love
ў малое сэрца ўмясьціць. to place within my small heart.
Вынайдзі, Божа, мне апраўданьне Find then for me, O God, justification
на шляху да Твайго жніва. on the pathway to Thy harvest.
І можа, не пераведзены шчэ стрэлкі... And maybe the hands have still not been reset…
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Хачу сказаць пра тое, што мяне найболей I want to tell you about what just now
зараз цешыць... gives me most pleasure…
Мой малы сусед, сын п’яніцаў вясковых, My little neighbour, the son of village drunkards,
здольны хлопчык, a bright little lad,
пры газьніцы, бо электрычнасьці ня маем, sits by the oil lamp (we’ve no electricity here)
штовечар піша вершы на свабоду. each evening writing verses about freedom.
Ён не Разанаў і не Барадулін, тым больш ня He’s no Razanaū nor Baradulin, and certainly no
Дудараў, Dudaraū,
але зь яго, я бачу, будзе толк! but I can see we’ll hear of him, some day!
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У вёсцы пачаліся спрэчкі: The village held debate: ‘We live here,
«Жывем мы над адною рэчкай, On the banks of this one river,
Адна зямелька ў апрацоўцы, One the land that we till daily,
І молімся ў адной царкоўцы, One the church in which we’re praying.
Адно ў нас сонейка, нябёсы, One the sun high in one heaven,
Адным спалучаны мы лёсам, One fate binds us all together,
Адно нам толькі невядома, One thing unknown our brains still taxes:
І нас хвалюе гэта — хто мы?» To know just who we are, exactly?’
«Павінны кімсьці быць, вядома, — ‘We must be something — that’s plain logic!’
Негаваркі азваўся Сёма, — Stated Sioma the laconic.
Мы ўсё-ткі людзі, мы ня гускі, ‘We’re people, and not geese, good cousins,
Мяне завуць заўсёды рускім». And always I’ve been told I’m Russian!’
Лявон дакінуў сваё слоўца: Lavon then put his word in plainly,
«А можа ўсе мы тут літоўцы? ‘Maybe we are all Lithuanian?
Было ж тут, пішуць летапісцы, Right here, of old, scribes wrote in days of yore, the
Княства Літоўскае калісьці». Lithuanian princes’ story’.
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Нэрвова ўскрыкнуў тут Кастусь: With nerves all tense, then cried Kastuś,
«Дзе ж ваша, браткі, Беларусь!? ‘Where, brothers, is your Belarus?
Бачу, пазбыцца вы гатовы I see you would deny forever
Нацыянальнасьці і мовы. Nationality and tongue together.
Што быццам бы мы з горшай гліны, As if some lesser clay had framed us,
Цурацца роднага павінны, So that we view our own as shameful,
Што быццам існуе прымус, As if some mighty force or power
Каб свайго зрокся беларус. Made us deny all that is ours.
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Мне бачыцца ў сёньняшняй здраднай імжы, In the treacherous mist, a sight I behold —
Якой мы ня згонім ніяк, — That mist we cannot drive away —
У новага дня на далёкай мяжы In the new day, upon the far border, a bold
Ідзе нам насустрач юнак. Youth towards us is making his way.
Вядзе за сабой ён натхнёны хаўрус An inspired band of brothers, all youthful as he,
Такі ж, як і сам малады. Follows as onwards he leads.
Яму я гукаю: ‘Belarusian!’, I call to him,
iдзі, беларус! ‘Come rapidly,
Ня сьцішвай змагарнай хады! Do not slacken your striving, your speed!’
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Тады пачую цераз гліну, Then through the clay I’ll see what passes,
Як на аблонь How in the leas
Прыскочыць, выскубе травіну Your white stallion champs the sweet grasses,
Твой белы конь. Gallops at ease.
Напоўніцу хай сакаўную So, let him graze his fill of sappy
Скубе траву, Grass, might and main.
А заіржэ, усе пачуюць: He’ll neigh, and all will hear him, happy.
Я зноў жыву. I’ll live again.
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Я абрус памінальны паслала на сьветлым On the bright field I draped a cloth like memorial
тым полі, banner,
Дзе жаўнеры Касьцюшкі лягалі на вечны спачын. Where Kaściuška’s soldiers lie in eternal rest,
Шалатнула трава, і вятрыска пацьвердзіў — The grasses rustled, the breeze ‘For liberty’ clamoured
«За волю!» And through the cloth the calm, wise wormwood
І прарос скрозь тканіну спакойны і мудры палын. pressed.
Засьцяліла я стольнікам слуцкую тую дарогу, With it I spread, like a table, the Słucak highway,
Дзе у сэрцаў пялёсткі ўгрызаліся кулі-чмялі. Where hornet-bullets bit the heart-petals through,
«За свабоду!» — пранесьліся словы паўстанцаў над ‘For liberty’ over the dale heroes’ words came flying
логам, And like martyrs’ thorns through the heavy cloth they
І пакутніцкім цернам скрозь цяжкі абрус grew.
прарасьлі.
I went to Kurapaty,
Я пайшла ў Курапаты, Where in grey swirls of anguish,
Дзе шэрымі клубамі болю Mist ate out the eyes of the slender, swaying birch,
Вочы выеў туман у бярозы пахіла-крывой. On the brittle bark ‘For liberty’ — words never
Там на крохкай бяросьце нязгасныя словы — vanquished,
«За волю!» Swelled up with blood in a hot —
Набрынялі гарачай — A still hot — surge.
Яшчэ ўсё гарачай — крывёй.
I wanted to tie a towel
Я хацела ручнік завязаць To the cross still standing,
На крыжы ацалелым, But the line of the victims encircled it like a chain,
Ды расстрэльныя чэргі яго, як ланцуг, абвілі. ‘For liberty’, and it fled like white dove, and vanished,
«За свабоду!» — і вырваўся голубам белым, So as not to perish on unloved earth in vain.
Каб ня згніць за нішто ў нялюбай зямлі.
Over houses which have gown calm in slumber,
Над дамамі, заціхлымі ў сонных турботах, Over whirlpools in deep waters where mystery clings,
Над вірамі ў глыбокай таемнай вадзе, Over fields that with salt sweat are flooded,
Над палямі, салёным залітымі потам, The free bird flies – and does not fold its wings...
Кружыць вольная птушка — і крылаў яна
не складзе...
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О, Беларусь, O Belarus,
Каханка нябёс, загадка, мадонна! Beloved of heaven, enigma, Madonna!
За якія грахі асудзіў цябе Бог For what sin did God punish you so,
На лёс выпрабавальнага палігона? Inflicting the fate of test-ground upon you?
Хто не таптаў, не дратаваў Who has not tramped, who has not stamped down
Палеткі твае ня вузкія? Your fields and broad meadows?
Татары і прусы, немцы, французы, Tatars and Prussians, Germans and Frenchmen,
Палякі і рускія. Poles too, and Russians,
Ніводная з войнаў — айчынных, сусьветных — Never a war, ‘patriotic’ or ‘world-war’
Не абышла цябе, Has passed you by.
Пляжыла і мярэжыла. They flattened and cratered you.
Цела тваё каралі, цары, генсекі Kings, Tsars or Gen-Secs all tore you,
Чацьвертавалі, палавінілі Quartered you, halved you,
Мовамі, верамі, дзяржаўнымі межамі. With languages, faiths, international borders.
Дзівіцца сьвет: што табе памагае — The world is amazed: what is it helps you,
Пацеры ці замовы? Prayer beads or incantations?
Што за краіна, што за такая? What kind of country do we have here?
Зьнікалі дзяржавы, народы, мовы, States disappeared, languages, nations,
Яна — не зьнікае. But she will not disappear.
О, Беларусь, O, Belarus,
Колькі вякоў палігоннасьць трывае! How many ages as test-ground you suffered,
Лязгае кратамі, хітрасьцю кратае. Here the bars clang, bars raised up with cunning.
Вось ізноў на табе Once more on you
Выпрабоўваюць трываласьць: They test out endurance:
Адны — дэмакратыі, Some test democracy,
Другія — нацыі, Some test the nation,
Чарнобыльскі чорт — чалавечай папуляцыі. Chernobyl fiend tests — the whole population.
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Навошта табе забіваць прэзыдэнта? What gain will it bring you to kill him?
Страх ліхаманкава дасьць яму рады. This terror will bring him quietus.
Страх — гэта яго пажыцьцёвая рэнта, Terror that as life’s rental will fill him,
адзіны ягоны набытак з улады. the sole heritage of his status.
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Цяпер ты можаш піць нагбом уладу Now you can quaff dominion, drink it deep,
і марнатравіць людзкія надзеі, and waste all human hopes and aspirations.
але надыдзе час, і возьме плату But time will come when for your evil deeds
зь цябе народ за ўсе ліхія дзеі. the people will demand due compensation.
Надыдзе час, і люд захоча праўды. The time will come; people will want the truth.
І то ня ўсёй, а толькі тое з праўдаў, But not the whole truth, only that small piece
дзе не народ падманвацца быў рады, of which nation was not gladly duped,
а ты яго бязьлітасна падманваў. as you duped it time and time without cease.
Надыдзе час, і люд захоча праўды. The time will come; people will want the truth.
І нават не яе, а толькі ведаў, Not even truth, but only to know surely
што зло не абмінула пакараньне, that evil has not escaped unpunished,
і першым той, хто сам з дубінкай бегаў, and the first who will accuse you duly
якраз цябе абвінавачваць першым стане. is he who lately ran wielding a truncheon.
Надыдзе час, і люд захоча праўды. The time will come; people will want the truth.
І нават не яе, а толькі помсты, And not even that, but vengeance meet
за тыя беды і за тую беднасьць, for the sorrows, woes and destitution
куды завёў ты грамадзянаў простых. you brought the man and woman in the street,
А з помстай да людзей прыходзіць еднасьць. and from that vengeance people will find union.
І мо на гэтай, зыбістай хоць, глебе And maybe on that soil — albeit shaky —
паўстане нацыя. will rise a nation.
І нацыя паўстане. A nation will rise then.
І прага не відовішчаў ці хлеба, The thirst for bread and circuses forsaken,
а прага волі кіравацьме тым паўстаньнем. a thirst for liberty will lead this rising.
І, гледзячы, як гмах тваёй улады And seeing your dominion’s tower transmuting
пераўтвараецца ў магільны камень, into a tombstone, you’ll learn from this sign
адкрыеш ты, што жорсткі Бог расплаты that the unbending God of retribution
жыве з табою ў зруйнаваным храме. dwells with you within a ruined shrine.
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Зрываюць наш дзяржаўны сьцяг, Our state flag into shreds they slash;
А мы — маўчым. We hold our peace.
Пагоню топчуць на вачах, And our Pahonia they now smash,
А мы — маўчым. We hold our peace.
Над роднай мовай адны зьдзекі, On our tongue they cast ignominy,
А мы — маўчым. We hold our peace.
Ня дурні мы, і не калекі, Though we’re not cripples, are not ninnies,
Але — маўчым. We hold our peace.
У турмы садзяць, варанкі, In transport trucks and jails men sit,
А мы — маўчым. We hold our peace.
Дэкрэт, маўляў, у іх такі, We’re told decrees will deal with it —
А мы — маўчым. But hold our peace.
Людзей зьнішчаюць па начах, People perish in the night,
А мы — маўчым. We hold our peace.
У душах невядомы страх, Our souls are filled with nameless fright;
І мы — маўчым. We hold our peace.
Нарэшце мушу закрычаць: Till I must cry, without surcease:
Дакуль жа будзем мы маўчаць! How long shall we still hold our peace?
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Мне б нарадзіцца шэрым віленскім катом I wish I’d been born a grey Vilnia cat,
Такою ж шэрай восеньскай гадзінай, In an autumn hour of grey gloaming,
Каб быць прыродным, паўнапраўным і адзіным To live naturally, independent, the only
Тых пляцаў, вуліцаў, дамоў гаспадаром. Lord of these squares, streets, houses, habitats.
Майго сусьвету мне хапала бы штодня, My universe would suffice me each day,
Каб і да сьмерці ім не надзівіцца My whole life would not wear out my interest in it,
Ад Пагулянкі да далёкага Зьвярынца, From Pahulanka out to far Źviaryniec
Дзе кожнае гарышча — нераскрыты скарб. Like treasure unopened, each attic would wait.
Мае няшчасныя двухногія сябры My poor two-legged friends whom fortune serves ill,
Прыгожа і свабодна жыць не заміналі б. Would not interfere with my life free, unharrowed,
Я б харчаваўся толькі у «Чырвоным Штралі», I should dine only at the ‘Red Arrow’
А ўлетку лена спаў на Замкавай гары. And in summer drowse lazily on Castle Hill.
У сакавіку б распачынаў такі канцэрт, In March I would raise such a concert, indeed,
Што ўсе пародныя, дагледжаныя коткі All the queen-cats, well-pedigreed, cosseted, tended,
Зьбягаліся б ад Добрай Рады да Ліпоўкі, From Lipoūka to Dobraja Rada, intending
Каб паспытаць мой не абы-які імпэт. To try my rare passion would haste with all speed.
Мне невядомы быў бы чалавечы жах And I’d never know that dread human fear
Ад акупанцкіх крокаў патруля начнога, — The tramping of foreign troops in the night-time,
Перабягаў бы ім апошнюю дарогу, I’d cross their last path, and like a shade, quietly,
Бы цень зьнікаючы ў Антокальскіх дварах. In the Antokal courts I should disappear.
Свой вольны век пражыўшы, нібы лорд, And then, having lived my free life, like a lord,
Я б змог аднойчы без стагнаньняў недарэчных Without useless groans or complaining,
На могілках старых любімага Зарэчча In dear Zarečča, in the old graveyard,
Залегчы, каб сустрэць апошні свой усход. I’d quietly lie down to await my last dawn.
Мне б нарадзіцца шэрым віленскім катом. I wish I’d been born a grey Vilnia cat.
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Мой Божа, Волю звыш прымаю — God, I accept the Will of Heaven,
мудрэю і мужнею тут. wiser, more warrior-like I grow,
Усё Свабода абдымае — Freedom embraces all things, even
дабро і ліха, лад і суд. due order, court-trials, good and woe.
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Маленства Infancy
на гарачым кані upon a hot horse
па сьпярэшчаным сухарэччы, by the ravine of a dried-up river
па тунэлях by tunnels
зялёнага небасхілу of the green horizon
дрэваў, што абдымаюцца ў вышыні of trees which embrace each other on high
з прудкім ветрам на скронях, with a torrential wind on the brows
які яшчэ і сёньня адчуваю, which I still sense today
як пошапт руху зямлі as the whisper of earth’s movement
нястомленай у паўторах. unwearied in repetitions
Як палёт жыцьця незабыты, as the unforgotten flight of life
што нібыта ня ўмее лётаць which, it seems does not know how to fly
па боскіх прасторах. in the divine spaces.
Сталасьць, Maturity
і скроні пад тым жа ветрам and the brow beneath the same wind
на іншай дзялянцы сьвету, in a different plot of the world
дзе вецер паўстанец, where the wind’s an insurgent,
вястун бяссоньня the herald of sleeplessness
перамогу моладзі адчувае, perceives the victory of youth
якая іншымі крокамі йдзе, which walks with different steps,
знаходзіць іншыя словы, finds different words
што шыраць зрэнкі мае, to dilate my pupils.
словы дзівоснага водару, Words of a wondrous odour,
іх льга памацаць, they can be touched,
сэрцам пачуць, felt by the heart,
адчуць форму нябёсную can perceive the heavenly form
і няўстойлівы абдойм нязгоды, and the volatile embrace of discord,
вартасьць і сутнасьць the worth and essence
Свабоды. of Freedom.
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Міхаліна Michalina
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Пакуль мы апошнія, нам загадана Being the last, we’ve been put under orders
не паміраць пад свабоды абломкамі, not to die under freedom’s ruins enshrouding us,
вочы, дарогай сівой разьвязаныя, and eyes unbound by grey roads at morning
неба асьлепіць ураньні аблокамі. the sky will render blind with its cloudiness.
Новая лінія — шнар на далоні — A new line on the palm — a cicatrice
наканаваньне скасуе паснулае, will cancel out slumbering destiny
белыя рэкі вернуць з улоньня white rivers restore from the womb quickly our
нашае паза- ці проста мінулае. pre-past or our simple past readily.
Хай, зьведаўшы кошты, Let them,
яны не прачнуцца, apprised of the cost, not wake again
жыцьці падзеляць на кадры адзьнятыя, to cut up life and framewise sever it,
спаліўшы паперу, радкі застануцца, when the paper is burned, the lines will stay, taken by
вечным гранітам нябёсаў прынятыя. the eternal granite of the heavens then.
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Ты паглядзі, кім стала ты цяпер, Look and see what you have now become,
Баісься нават глянуць у люстэрка, You fear even to view the mirror’s vision,
Бо ў поглядзе тваім стаіўся сумны зьвер, For in your glance a beast is lurking, glum,
Якога не прагнаць, You’ll not expel it,
А клічуць — паняверка. It is called — suspicion.
Ты моліш усю ноч: You’ll pray all night:
Сыдзі, шальбер! ‘Begone, you swindling scum!’
Я сукню белую хачу дастаць з куфэрка I want to get out my white dress; with this on
І стаць ранейшай. Become what once I was.
Ды не сыходзіць зьвер, But the beast glum
Журботны зьвер зь мянушкай паняверка. And gloomy stays — the beast that’s named
Ты кажаш: ‘suspicion’.
Мне нязносны твой ашчэр! You say:
Каб ты мне ў вочы не глядзеў, ‘I cannot bear your grin so dumb.
Я разаб’ю люстэрка. I’ll stop you. Smash the glass. That’s my decision!’
Разьбіла. It’s smashed.
Ды сьмяецца сумны зьвер, But now it’s smiling, that beast glum
Найгоршая з хімэр, That worst chimera come,
Нязводны паняверка. Unsheddable suspicion.
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На вуліцах хлопцы шукалі свабоду, Through the streets went the boys seeking for
Як бабкі шукаюць бутэлькі ў сьмецьці freedom
На плошчы зь вядомаю назвай Свабода, As old women seek in the garbage for bottles
Шукалі, блукалі па сьвеце, як дзеці. And on the Square with the famed name of Freedom
They sought, wandered fraught, like toddlers they
Свабоду, як штучную танную каву, tottered.
Мы спажываем з ахвотай штодня,
З прысмакам прыкра-салёным, крывавым… And this same freedom, like cheap ersatz coffee,
Іншага, мусіць, чакаем дарма. Daily we drink down, again and again,
Harsh, salty as blood is the taste that it offers…
And for any other we wait but in vain.
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Шлях да зор шукала дарма я. I reached for the stars — without succeeding.
Вечны лёс Бабілёнскае вежы. The Tower of Babel’s fate ever curses.
Нехта верш на свабоду мае. Someone has written verses for freedom.
Я ня маю свабоды на вершы. I have no freedom to write verses.
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Заплюшчыць вочы і глядзець, Close your eyes tight, and then gaze
каб распрануць са шкла малюнак and so undress from glass the painting
згубленага майстра. of a forgotten master.
І твае вочы будуць грэць And your eyes will know the blaze
жывыя фарбы of living hues
без шклянога бляску. without glare of the glass.
А потым будзе проста сон, After that only a dream will come
дзе сінь і чырвань разам. with blue and red together.
Рэзка. Сьмешна. Sharply. Laughing.
І колеры ва ўнісон And the colours in unison
гучаць з атрутай мёртвых вершаў, will sound with poison of dead verses,
з атрутай ржавага ляза, with poison of rusty willows
што не пакрыўдзіць вен і пальцаў, which will not harm the veins and fingers,
стракатых дзён, якім, прызнацца, of rainbow days, which, it’s admitted,
наканавана паўтарацца, are destined they must be repeated,
бо на іх не хапіла фарбаў since he’d not all the colours for them
згубленага майстра. that forgotten master.
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xтocь пішa, i pытopыкaй cтapoй that someone writes, and with old rhetoric,
yвoдзiць юнaкoў y зaблyжджэньнe: he leads young people into error straying;
змaгap, pyплівeц, xoдыньнiк, гepoй, warrior, hero, for all action quick.
тытaн, a мo й тытaнiк aдpaджэньня... A titan — or a titanlet — of renaissance...
Cтaмiлicя й гyбляeм лiк гaдaм: We have grown tired, we lose the count of years,
гaды ў тypмe пaўзyчыя, як гaды! years in a prison crawl like adders creeping,
Дзe ж тaя пaўнaгpyдaя мaдaм, when will that full-breasted Madame appear
штo ўcix нac пaвядзe нa бapыкaды? who to the barricades one day will lead us?
Штo мaeм, ёй бы кiнyлi дa нoг! What we have, we would cast down at her feet!
І вapтaвыя чyюць нaшы eнкi, And the guards can hear our mournful wailing,
кaлi нaчaмi ў кaляpoвыx снox when in the night in coloured dreams we see
мы бaчым гэтy дaмy бeз cyкeнкi. that lady now with no chemise to veil her.
Mы вaлiм дpэвы, чэшaм кaмянi, We fell the trees, we hew the stones away.
кaпaeм кaтлaвaны i кaнaлы, We excavate canals and dig out quarries,
чaкaeм нa cпaткaньнi, лiчым днi we wait for the next visit, count the days
й aбaгaўляeм cьвeт нaш дacкaнaлы. and deify our world’s all-perfect glory.
Бo вepым: нaвaкoльнae лaйнo For we believe: this cloth which swathes us now
цудоўным гноем станецца ў гacпoдзe. will prove a wondrous mulch for future seeding,
Пpaз зaкpaтaвaнae aкнo and through that window with bars row on row,
гapтyeм дыx, кaб дыxaць нa cвaбoдзe. we train our breath, so as to breathe in freedom.
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Свабода Freedom
як сэрафім з шасьцю крыламі: is like a seraph with six wings:
двума ён with two he
вочы свае захінае, каб Бога ня бачыць, veils his eyes so that he will not behold God,
бо ня варты небнае звышнасьці; being unworthy of heavenly majesty;
яшчэ двума шчытна with two more, shielding
ногі свае атуляе, he covers his feet
каб Бог ня бачыў so God will not behold
ягонай зямное існасьці; his terrestrial essence;
трэцяю ж параю крылаў and with the third pair of wings
увесь час трапеча над намі, he hovers incessantly over us,
утвараючы мройлівы дым, creating a smoke of mirages
празь які мы яго through which we shall
ніколі ня бачым. never behold him.
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Белае сьвятло — гэта нашае жыцьцё, — адказала ‘White light is our life’, answered the woman with
Жанчына, калі мы йшлі па дарозе разам. whom I walked together on the road.
Яна вярталася ў выселеную вёску, дзе нельга She was returning to a depopulated village where no
жыць пасьля Чарнобылю. Я несла скрыню one could live after Chernobyl. I was carrying on my
з пчоламі на плячах... back a box of bees...
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Выбег ты із шэрых туманаў, You came running out of the grey mists,
спыніўся, you halted,
фыркаючы ды азіраючы навакольле, snorting and looking round you from side to side,
нібы шукаючы дзікім паглядам as if seeking with your wild eyes
таго, хто павінен сядзець на табе ды the one who should rightly be mounted upon you
ў бокі балюча прышпорваць. pricking sharp spurs in your flanks.
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«Свабодай» ‘Liberty’
назвалі газэту студэнты. the students named their journal.
Прыдумана ў Санкт-Пецярбурзе, It was dreamed up in St Petersburg,
адбіта ў Лябёдцы run off in Labiodka
Лідзкага павету — in Lida County —
на дасьвецьці стагодзьдзя. at the dawn of the century.
Беларускае слова Belarusian words
друкаванымі літарамі set up in real live type
было навіной. — That was something new!
Алаіза, — адзіная зь іх дзяўчына, — Ałaiza — the only girl among them —
дала верша: gave a poem:
«Цяжка жыць, трудзіцца, ‘Life and toil is hard indeed,
Калі няма долі. When fate is but sorrow.
Жыта не радзіцца And rye will yield no seed
На мужыцкім полі...» In a peasant’s furrow!’
Хтось напісаў надзённы артыкул — Someone put pen to a hopeful article
аб беларусах і аб патрэбе волі. on Belarusians and need for freedom.
Душою падпольнай рэдакцыі The soul of that underground team
быў Іваноўскі Вацлаў. was Vacłaū Ivanoūski.
Дапамагалі браты — His brothers also helped —
Тадэвуш і Юры. Tadevuš and Jury.
Першы стаў летувісам пазьней, Later, the first turned Lithuanian,
другі, што ня дзіўна, — палякам. the second — no wonder — turned Polish.
Памёр беларусам Only Vacłaū would die
толькі Вацлаў. as a Belarusian.
Яго напаткала куля. There was a bullet for him.
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Веру: I believe:
Выпаўзьні з чорнай начы Night’s black crawlers cannot
Дух твой вольны Your free spirit
На здраду ня змовяць. Betray to confusion.
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Translator’s notes ę
Rognvaldr) of Połacak. In the year 978, she refused to marry
the (polygamous pagan) Grand Prince Vladimier of Kyiv —
on the grounds that whereas his father was royal, his
Uładzimier Arłoў (p. 25) mother was only a slave-concubine. Angry at her refusal,
Vladimier sacked Połacak, killed her parents, and carried
Połacak — a city on the confluence of the rivers Pałata and her off by force. In 988, when he became a Christian and put
Dźvina; the oldest city in what is now Belarus, and one of aside his existing wives to marry a princess of Byzantium,
the oldest in the East-Slavonic lands (it is first mentioned she seems to have retired into a convent. Through her sons
in the Chronicles under the annal for 862). During the 9th– by Vladimier, she was the ancestress of many European
12th centuries it was the main seat of political power in the royal lines, one of her descendants in the 35th generation is
area, until superseded by the rise of Navahradak. It Queen Elizabeth II. The rape of Rahnieda is frequently
remained, however, and remains to this day, an important treated as an archetype of the sufferings inflicted on Belarus
focus of culture. by more powerful neighbours. Here the poet seems to focus
Nižniepakroўskaja — the oldest street in Połacak; used here rather on her attempt to refuse a marriage which she
to symbolize all that is most valued in Belarusian urban considered degrading.
cultural tradition, just as Unter den Linden, the principal
Janka Kupała (1882–1942) — the poet, one of the leading
avenue in Berlin, symbolizes the parallel values for west
figures of the Belarusian cultural renaissance of the early
European tradition.
20 th century.
Eduard Akulin (pp. 43, 45) Maksim Bahdanovič (1891–1917) — the greatest lyric poet
of Belarus, who, both on account of his talent and his
The Niamiha — a river, flowing through Miensk, now (like
premature death from tuberculosis has often been compared
the many lost rivers of Miensk), contained in a culvert. The
to John Keats. His works include the profoundly patriotic
first disaster was a battle in the 11th century, when forces of
poem ‘The Pahonia’, which is in effect an alternative
the prince of Kyiv defeated those of Połacak. (The
national anthem of Belarus.
mediaeval epic ‘The lay of Igor’s Host’ refers to the ‘bloody
banks of Niamiha’.) The second was on 30 May, 1999, when Łarysa Hienijuš (1910–1983) — the poet. Before World War
a crowd of young people were attending an open-air pop II she lived in Western Belarus (under Polish rule). In 1937,
concert in Miensk. There was a sudden downpour, and they she and her husband moved to Prague, where she was active
ran for shelter in the underpass of the nearby ‘Niamiha’ in Belarusian émigré literary and political life. In 1948,
metro station. The steps were wet and slippery; people when communist rule was established in Czechoslovakia,
began falling. In the crush, 53 young people lost their lives. she was arrested, extradited to the Soviet Union, and in
Rahnieda (in Old Norse Ragnei r) — the daughter of the 1949 was given a 25-year prison sentence. During the
Scandinavian-descended Prince Rahvałod (Old Norse political ‘thaw’ of 1956, her sentence was reduced to
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8 years, and eventually she was able to return to Belarus, downplay the extent of the contamination to three counties
and to publish her work there. However, the charges against in the extreme south of the country, and it was not until
her were never formally dropped — and (to date) three 1989 that the full extent of the damage was officially
attempts to have them annulled proved unsuccessful. acknowledged. The full consequences to the health of the
…Christ once walked among us… — The motif of Christ population are still not known; each successive study by
visiting Belarus is the basis of the ‘Apocrypha’ — a prose- scientists and epidemiologists produces a higher figure.
poem in Biblical style, written by the poet Maksim Moreover, earlier studies concentrated on the most
Bahdanovič, an English translation of which appeared in prevalent isotopes in the fall-out (radioactive iodine and
the poetry magazine ‘Manifold’ (No.27, 1968, pp. 39–41). caesium), and only very recently has work started on the
A somewhat similar motif occurs in a poem of Uładzimier distribution of the small, but extremely dangerous, particles
Karatkievič (1930–1984), — though in the latter work it is of material from the reactor core, some of which will remain
related to ‘eternal present’ — rather than the legendary past. radioactive for centuries to come.
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Danuta Bičel (pp. 49, 51) Soviet Belarus in the 1920s: ‘The Chronicle of Palessie’
(‘Paleskaja chronika’) by Ivan Mielež (1921–1976),
The poet is writing from the perspective of her home-town,
published in stages over 15 years (1961–1976). The first
Horadnia, in western Belarus, which, after more than a
two parts ‘People of the Marshes’ and ‘The breath of the
century and a half of Russian rule, was between World Wars
storm’ (‘Podych navalnicy’) won Mielež the Soviet Union’s
I and II, part of the Republic of Poland. In September 1939,
top literary award — the Lenin prize.
under the terms of the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact between
Nazi Germany and the USSR, it was incorporated into the Marshes no light task to drain… — Marsh-drainage and ‘land-
USSR. improvement’ schemes played a major role in Soviet
agricultural planning — and sometimes proved excessively
The family names in the final lines are — being names — left
costly, and, in the long-term, had unforeseen and negative
untranslated — though I have ventured to give them an
consequences for the environment.
English plural ending. It is worth noting, however, that
they are, in the main, either derived from Belarusian place
Valžyna Mort (p. 103)
names or from traditional trades.
Barabbas — the robber and murderer whom, according to
Aleś Barski (pp. 53, 55) all four Gospels (Matthew 27:17, Mark 15:11, Luke 23:1,
John 18:40) the crowd demanded should be amnestied,
From Połacak to Padlašša… — Padlašša (in Polish Podlasie) rather than Christ — used here, perhaps, as an archetype of
is a region of eastern Poland, with a large ethnic-Belarusian mistaken populist choice.
minority. Since Połacak lies in the north-east of Belarus,
‘from Połacak to Padlašša’ here signifies the whole extent of Viera Burłak (pp. 107, 109)
ethnic Belarusian territory, similarly to ‘from Bielsk to
Ra (or Re) — the ancient Egyptian sun-god. The rendering
Smalensk’ in the poem of Jan Čykvin (p. 300).
of lines 37–46 necessarily includes certain approximations.
Some Belarusian words, drawn from ‘international’
Halina Karžanieўskaja (p. 59)
vocabulary, do have English equivalents which also contain
Oh yes, we’re people of the marshes… — This line of the poem the phoneme RA (e.g. here, Belarusian ‘restaRAn’, ‘haRAž’,
evokes two famous works. The first is an 8-line poem by ‘RAdyjo’ = English ‘restauRAnt’, ‘gaRAge’, ‘RAdio’).
Janka Kupała ‘Oh yes, a prole am I’ (‘O tak! Ja — praletar!’), Moreover, there are some fortuitous correspondences:
written in 1924, expressing his growing disillusion with ‘GeneRAl store’ is a fairly close approximation to the
Soviet rule, and contrasting the official ‘internationalism’ of Belarusian ‘PRAmtavary’ while the US ‘VeteRAns’
the Soviet Union (‘The world is motherland to me’), with AdministRAtion’ corresponds neatly to the Belarusian
the fact that still ‘To Belarus my dreams are turning!’ The ‘RAda veteRAnaū’. Other terms, however, are less obliging.
second is ‘People of the Marshes’ (‘Ludzi na bałocie’), the In the interests of accuracy, therefore, I append the
first volume of the trilogy of novels dealing with life in following list of approximations:
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Belarusian term Literal translation Rendering Blue flag — presumably the flag of the European Union, or
HastRAnom Food store High-gRAde foods possibly that of the United Nations — in either case viewed
KRAma Shop Shopping paRAde
as an organization guarding and guaranteeing human and
civil rights.
RAźlikovy RAchunak Current account Cash withdRAwals
Alena Ihnaciuk (p. 147) In ancient time… — This is a literal rendering of the original
— which by one of those happy coincidences which
` Delacroix (1798–1863), ‘La Liberté
The painting by Eugene sometimes occur in translation, has, for the English reader,
Guidant le Peuple’ (1830) is in the Louvre. It is usually very similar literary/emotive resonances to those this poem
known in English as ‘Liberty leading the people’. has for Belarusians.
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Choke-cherry gas — cheremukha, the Russian name for the Heracleitus of Ephesus (c. 520–460 BC), to whom is
tree known in English as ‘bird-cherry’ or ‘choke-cherry’ is attributed the saying ‘One cannot step twice into the same
also the name of a gas (similar to CS), used in CIS countries river’.
e.g. to disperse demonstrations.
Valancina Koўtun (p. 191)
Maryna Prakapovič (p. 183)
Euphrosyne — St Euphrosyne of Połacak (?1104–1167),
The train is leaving shortly, Europe-bound… — Belarus, as honoured as the ‘Educatrix of Belarus’ was a member of the
guidebooks to the country frequently state, ‘lies at the heart princely house of Połacak, who at the age of 12 ran away
of Europe’. Though its claim to the actual centre-point of from home and entered a convent. She promoted the spread
the continent is challenged by its neighbours to north and of learning and the copying of books, probably transcribing
south — Lithuania and Ukraine, it undoubtedly lies some herself, and commissioned the noted jeweller Łazar
approximately half-way between Ireland and the Urals and Bohša to make an ornate jewelled reliquary in the form of a
on latitudes roughly half-way between those of the North double-barred cross which was one of the historic treasures
Cape and the ‘toe’ of Italy. At the same time, in a symbolic of Belarus. The cross disappeared during World War II,
sense, Belarusian writers past and present often speak of although there is still hope that it might yet come to light.
‘Europe’ as if it were something remote from their own (For a translation of the mediaeval ‘Life of St Euphrosyne’
country. Political discourse over the past decade has and introductory article, see: ‘The Journal Of Byelorussian
frequently presented the future of Belarus as a choice Studies’, Vol. II, No.1 (London, 1969), pp. 3–24.)
between ‘Europe’ and ‘Russia’. Bilingualism — the current official term for a policy of
Kolyma — notorious, in the Soviet era, for its prison camps. giving the Russian language equal status with Belarusian.
After the years of downgrading of the Belarusian language
Nadzieja Sałanovič (p. 185) under Soviet rule, bilingualism is seen by many Belarusians
as putting their own ‘state’ language — Belarusian — at a
Although in no way an ‘official’ emblem, the cornflower is disadvantage.
considered the ‘national flower’ of Belarus, and —
particularly in the poetry of Maksim Bahdanovič — Hleb Łabadzienka (p. 197)
symbolizes the spiritual and artistic values of the nation.
The pluristops at the end of the poem represent the word
New Belarusian — the term often applied to sharp-witted ‘Belarus’. At times when it has been ‘politically incorrect’
entrepreneurs, who have prospered in the post-Soviet for Belarusians openly to express their love for their
situation — unlike the general population, whose standard country, it became customary to give the greeting ‘Long
of living has steadily declines. live!…’ without mentioning the subject of that wish.
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Halina Tvaranovič (p. 199) that they all have evocative overtones for Belarusians. Thus
Jan will recall (in variant form of the name) a pre-eminent
This poem is noteworthy for its Biblical allusions. In
poet of Belarus Janka Kupała. Sioma will recall Jakub Kołas’
addition to the more obvious allusions — the Star of
(1882–1956) narrative poem ‘Symon the Musician’
Bethlehem, which (Matthew 2:2) announced the birth of
(‘Symon-muzyka’); Paўlina the heroine of Kupała’s comedy
Christ, and the ‘purest of arches/of the great covenant’ —
‘Paūlinka’, Lavon the hero of a patriotic song inset into
the rainbow, the symbol of God’s pledge to Noah that never
Kupała’s narrative poem ‘Night Halt’ (‘Na papasie’), and
again will He send another flood to destroy the world
Kastuś — Kastuś Kalinoūski, heroic leader of the 1863
(Genesis 9:12) the whole concept of the resetting of the
uprising against Tsarist rule. The irony that the speakers in
‘timepiece’ of the universe seems to have been inspired by
Švied’s poem, who are uncertain of their identity, all share
the story of King Hezekiah, and the turning back of the
names with iconic Belarusian patriotic figures (fact or
shadow on the sundial (II Kings: 20:8–11).
fiction) can hardly be accidental.
Jan Čykvin (p. 201) ‘Local’ — Belarusian tutejšy from tut (here). The word used
by Belarusian peasants at the turn of the 19th– 20th centuries
From Bielsk to Smalensk… — Bielsk (in Poland) and
when questioned as to their ethnic identity. While aware
Smalensk (in Russia) currently lie beyond the frontiers of
that they were neither Russians nor Poles, they had no
Belarus, but are historically part of what may be termed
other sense of their identity than that they were ‘from
Belarusian ‘ethnic territory’.
hereabouts’. ‘The Locals’ (‘Tutejšyja’) is the title of a play
by Janka Kupała, which deals precisely with the problem of
Viktar Šałkievič (p. 203)
Belarusian identity and national consciousness. Although
Aleś Razanaў and Ryhor Baradulin are two of the leading the Soviet Belarusian authorities conferred on Kupała their
contemporary Belarusian poets, and are represented in this highest literary honour — the title of ‘People’s Poet’ — from
collection (pp. 17, 21). the mid-1920s onwards, ‘Tutejšyja’ was neither acted nor
Dudaraў — this reference seems to be ironic, since Alaksiej republished within the Belarusian SSR.
Dudaraū (1950–), although a noted writer who won many
of the major literary prizes of the Soviet era, is a prose Jarasłaў Atłas-Maskalevič (p. 211)
writer and dramatist — and has published no poetry The sap of the silver birch is a traditional drink in Belarus
whatsoever. — refreshing and invigorating.
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Independence, and was the leader of the 1794 Belarusian- ‘Slumber of soul begets base slyness.’ — According to the
Polish uprising against Tsarist rule. He had an international author, he noted this phrase in the diaries of Leo Tolstoy; he
reputation in his lifetime (both John Keats and Leigh Hunt does not, however, recollect the exact reference.
wrote sonnets in his honour); more recently, monuments
have been erected to him in Poland, the USA and Valancin Taras (p. 227)
Switzerland. A town in Michigan, an Alaskan island, and
This poem is a response to the poem of Słavamir Adamovič,
the highest peak in Australia have been named after him.
‘Kill the President’, which although clearly ironic,
Słucak — the focus of the 1920 Belarusian pro- nevertheless, resulted in his being charged with insulting a
independence uprising. state official, and spending 10 months in jail. The case was
publicised in ‘Index on Censorship’ 1996 (No. 4) and 1997
Kurapaty — a wooded area on the outskirts of Miensk,
(No. 4).
where in 1937–1941, the victims of Stalin’s terror were
executed. At least 30,000 and possibly as many as 100,000
Aleś Lipaj (p. 229)
people are estimated to have perished there; the discovery
and exhumation of their remains in 1988 gave added The thirst for bread and circuses… — Cf. Juvenal ‘Satires’,
impetus to the pro-democracy pro-independence movement x: 81: ‘Now that no one buys our votes, the public has long
in Belarus in the last years of the Soviet Union. More since cast off its cares; the people that once bestowed
recently, when the site came under threat from a planned commands, consulships, legions, and all else, now meddles
widening of the Miensk ring — its ‘defenders’ occupied the no more and longs eagerly for just two things — bread and
site, and sat out a bitter winter in tents. circuses.’
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Krakow, under the pseudonym of Maciej Buračok. The Pahulanka (from hulać — to play, take a walk;
passage reads, in full: ‘There have been many peoples, which J.Basanavičiaus and K.Kalinausko streets area) — a street in
first lost their speech, as a man may be deprived of his the centre of Vilnia, with many cafés, etc. A popular place
speech before his death, and then they perished entirely. So for people, in particular, couples, to stroll.
do not abandon our Belarusian speech, lest we perish!’
Źviarynec — a district of Vilnia, which was formerly a royal
‘This heritage has come to me…’ — A quotation from Janka hunting park (from źvier — wild animal; Žverynas in
Kupała’s poem ‘Heritage’ (‘Spadčyna’), for translation see Lithuanian).
‘Like Water, Like Fire’, p. 99.
Castle Hill — the site of the Tower of Gedymin (a mediaeval
The final stanza of the poem is written in the kind of prince), and of the original settlement from which Vilnia
Creolized jargon that has resulted from decades of developed. It is one of the highest points in the city, from
downgrading the Belarusian language in favour of Russian. which one obtains an excellent view.
A comparable effect in English may be obtained (as here) by
Lipoўka and Dobraja Rada — districts of Vilnia, Lithuanian
Creolizing with German.
names are Liepkalnio gatve and Gerosios vilties. Lipoўka is
named from the large number of lime trees (Belarusian lipa)
Iryna Paўlovič (p. 237)
which formerly grew in the area. Dobraja Rada means
Our state flag into shreds they slash… — This is not simply ‘Good Counsel’; it is sometimes also called Dobraja nadzieja
rhetoric. In May 1995, when the white-red-white flag was (Good Hope) or Dobryja spadziavańni (Good
replaced by the Soviet-style red and green flag, a senior Expectations).
Presidential aide was shown on Belarusian TV, cutting up
The Antokal Courts — a district of Vilnia, Antakalnis in
the white-red-white flag, and autographing the scraps for
Lithuanian; originally built as an elegant suburb.
souvenirs.
Zarečča (from the expression za rakoj — across the river) —
Źmicier Bartosik (p. 241) Užupis in Lithuanian. The cemetery mentioned in the poem
is the Bernardine cemetery in this city district.
The poet gives the names of these areas in Vilnia in their
Belarusian form. Since they are generally meaningful (see
Michalina (p. 255)
derivations in brackets), they frequently differ in form
considerably from the corresponding Lithuanian names, The first line, in the original, reads simply ‘In the [Catholic]
though the meaning is identical (rather as in Brussels a church of St Anne’. However, just as, in an English context,
street will have two names — French and Flemish — with a reference to St Paul’s, without further qualification, will
the same meaning but different in form, e.g. ‘Rue de la Loi — immediately evoke an image of Wren’s cathedral, so to a
Wetstraat’). Belarusian, this line will immediately evoke the Gothic
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church of St Anne in Vilnia, of which Napoleon Bonaparte Siarhiej Astraўcoў (pp. 283, 285)
is reported to have said that it was so exquisite that he
Ałaiza Paškievič (1876–1916) — writer and poet, who used
would like to put it in his pocket and take it back to France.
the pseudonym ‘Ciotka’.
Niaśviž — the former seat of the Radziwill princes; the
palace, dating from the 16th–18 th centuries, and the There was a bullet for him… — Vacłaū Ivanoūski was shot
surrounding park is a major tourist attraction. during the Nazi occupation of Miensk in 1943; Soviet
partisans claimed responsibility.
…the lyrics of Bahdanovič… — Maksim Bahdanovič; his
works include, incidentally, a poem about the Church of Alma Mater — the poet’s Alma Mater is the Belarusian
St Anne, referred to in this poem. State University in Miensk.
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